


Of love and other political affairs

by thecastledking



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecastledking/pseuds/thecastledking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>U.S. Senator Misha Collins is knee deep in campaigning to be the next President of the United States when he gets a new personal assistant named Jensen Ackles, who quickly turns the entire campaign on its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of love and other political affairs

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warning: one scene of off-screen nonfatal public shooting

The heater at campaign headquarters has been broken for the past three days. Having a broken heater in early March in Boston with three inches of snow outside and more threatening to fall at any second isn’t an ideal work environment and tensions have been running high, but all interpersonal conflicts have been set aside for tonight.

It’s Super Tuesday, and the numbers from the twenty-three states holding primaries and caucuses today are rolling in. With ten states under their belts so far, the _Collins for America_ campaign team is in high spirits. It’s still an exhausting evening with phones ringing off their hooks and the numerous televisions set up around the office blaring results and reporters making both good and bad predictions.

It’s well past two in the morning on the east coast when the California results come in, the last of the night. All told, they’ve won thirteen and some of those by a slim margin. Still, it’s a cause for celebration, and the party that follows goes even further into the early morning. They don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, and, though the reprieve from constant travel, rallies, debates, and waiting for results is a small one, it’s greatly appreciated.

Misha sits in front of one of the many televisions, elbows on his knees, quietly gnawing on the corner of a thumbnail, and grinning slightly at the news reporter who’s going over the results for what seems to be the billionth time.

“It doesn’t bode well,” Misha says solemnly as they cut away to footage of his speech at the rally, “that I’m already getting tired of giving speeches.”

“How do you think we feel?” Ben grumps from where he and Jeremy are currently arguing over syntax between furious bouts of scribbling on legal pads. “We always have to write two speeches, Collins. One for if you win; one for if you lose. All you have to do is read them.”

Misha smiles broadly. “You know you love it.” Jeremy throws a ball of paper at Misha’s head in response. “Why are you two even working right now? We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“Says the man who’s hardly looked away from the news coverage all night,” Jared chides as he approaches, a slight weave to his gait. He hands Misha a mug with a smile. “Some of Jim’s warm Irish apple cider. Heavy on the Irish.”

“So it’s a mug of whiskey that’s been nuked in the microwave?” Misha asks, taking a careful sip. “Damnit, I can still taste the cider under all that.” Jared’s laughter booms through the room as he gives Misha’s shoulder a slight shake.

“Hey, man, congrats on today.”

“Thanks,” Misha says, giving Jared’s giant paw a somewhat condescending pat. Jared gives his shoulder another squeeze before he meanders away. “Has someone cut him off, yet?” Misha asks Sam, who is making her own congratulatory rounds.

“Clif’s keeping an eye on him,” she informs him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “You did great tonight.”

“Thanks, Sam. What do you think; can we change the public speaking dress code from suit and tie to jeans and sweatshirt? Because that’d be great.”

“But you look so hot in a suit,” Sam says, plunking herself in the seat next to Misha to watch the coverage with him.

“Cradle robber,” he teases, wiggling down in his chair a bit so he can comfortably rest his head on Sam’s shoulder.

“I should hope not. I’m only six years older than you.”

“Tell me we’re going someplace that isn’t freezing next.”

“We’re going to Kansas the day after tomorrow,” Sam says, putting her arm around Misha and giving him a slight hug. She laughs at the protesting groan that comes out of Misha’s mouth.

“Why can’t we go to Hawaii or something?”

“Because the next primary is in Kansas and you have to be there to give one of Ben and Jeremy’s speeches.”

“All these speeches and we’re not out of primaries yet. Why am I doing this again?”

“That’s the fact you haven’t slept in three days talking, aided by Jim’s Irish apple cider if the contents of that mug are what I think they are.”

“Have some,” Misha murmurs sleepily, waving the mug in her general direction.

“I’ll pass.”

“’S good. In a liver rotting kinda way.”

“I don’t hear anyone else complaining about liver failure,” Jim’s gruff voice breaks through Misha’s drowsy haze. “I think I’ve found you a replacement assistant.”

Misha sits up immediately at those words. He hands the mug off to Sam as he stands and runs a hand through his hair.

“I promise I’m not drunk, just very, very tired,” he says to the two men standing in front of him, emphasizing his point with a jaw popping yawn. “I’m Misha Collins.” He holds out his hand to the man he doesn’t know.

The guy’s a bit taller than him, short light brown hair, a smattering of freckles across his nose and some of the greenest eyes Misha’s ever seen. Just looking at him makes Misha think of wheat fields and sunlight and the smell of freshly cut grass. He finds himself suddenly fixating on the guy’s mouth and his mind starts going into overdrive with increasingly inappropriate thoughts that he quickly squashes before it ventures into NC-17 territory and he awkwardly pops a boner in front of a man whose name he hasn’t learned yet.

“I know,” the guy says, shaking his hand and shattering through Misha’s reverie at the same time. “I’m Jensen. Ackles. It’s a real honor to meet you, Mr. Senator, sir.”

“Okay, rule one of being my assistant, you never call me ‘Mr. Senator’ or ‘sir’ unless we’re in public or if you just really want to stroke my already overinflated ego. And it’s an honor to meet the Dalai Lama, not me.”

“What do I call you, then? Mr. Collins?” The question is sincere but Misha can hear the slight albeit awkward tease to it.

“Misha’s fine.”

“Misha, then. You can call me Jensen.”

“I was planning to.” He frowns slightly when Jensen shivers, hands quickly seeking the shelter of warm pockets, shoulders hunching up a bit to fend off the chill. “Boston in March too cold for you?”

“I’m originally from Texas, sir. Mr. Collins. Misha.”

Misha laughs. “That explains the two sweatshirts you’ve got on. You can take the boy out of Texas…”

“Yeah, something like that,” Jensen says, there’s a slight nervousness to his voice that Misha finds incredibly endearing. And, oh shit, are they flirting? He’s never been a good judge of that kind of thing at the best of times, let alone when he’s exhausted and slightly drunk.

Suddenly desperate to not be this guy’s center of attention anymore, Misha quickly asks, “Have you met Jared yet? Jared’s from Texas. You two would get along great. He’s been dying to get out of this cold since before we arrived.” He turns slightly and yells across the room, “Hey, Jared! Come meet the new guy!”

When Jared doesn’t come bounding across the room like the hyperactive puppy he is, Misha looks around and sees him passed out on one of the thrift store couches, his gargantuan limbs hanging off the sides and dragging on the ground. He makes a mental note to slash Jared’s pay for not coming to his rescue.

“So, did I get the job?” Jensen asks hesitantly.

“I didn’t realize I was supposed to be interviewing you for the position. Was I supposed to be interviewing him? I thought he already got the job.”

“I was waiting for your seal of approval since the last guy turned out to be a complete moron,” Jim replies.

“Jensen doesn’t seem like a complete moron.” He squints his eyes and raises his chin slightly in judgment, hoping no one can see the inner freak out he’s currently having because he’s never been attracted to guys before but holy shit. “Do you want the job, Jensen?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve got the job. Your first task is to go find Clif and tell him I’m ready to back to the hotel and sleep for a decade.”

“Oh…okay…” Jensen stammers and Misha tamps down the ridiculous urge to brush his hand down Jensen’s arm.

He’s only thinking this way because he’s tipsy, exhausted and hasn’t had anyone that wasn’t his own hand for longer than he’d care to think. He pretends not to notice Sam point Clif out to Jensen with a smile and a kind pat on the shoulder, welcoming him to the team. It’s definitely the tipsy/exhaustion/loneliness trifecta talking when Misha catches himself staring at Jensen’s ass as he walks away.

\--

Okay, so maybe it’s not the tipsy/exhaustion/loneliness trifecta talking. Even in the harsh light of day after a good night’s sleep, Jensen is gorgeous. Misha passes him off onto someone else under the guise of job training during the Kansas primary to try and get this sudden bizarre infatuation under control. He knows he can’t avoid Jensen forever, though. That time comes when he trips over his own feet because he was staring at Jensen again without realizing it while boarding the plane back to D.C. He mentally thanks every god he’s ever heard of that no one noticed his bout of clumsiness until he notices someone’s gripping his arm.

It’s Jensen.

“You okay?” Jensen asks quietly.

“What? Uh… Yeah, head in the clouds today.” He manages a self deprecating laugh as he hastily slips out of Jensen’s grasp. “You should really be looking out for Jared. He’s an utter klutz on his most graceful days.”

Jensen laughs slightly. “Yeah, okay, just making sure.” He pauses awkwardly. “I just ask because you look more tired now than you did back in Boston. Have you been getting any sleep?”

“Enough,” Misha says.

Which is bullshit. Every second he hasn’t spent thinking about the campaign he spends on his Jensen induced ‘big gay freakout’. Trying to get his thoughts in enough order to sleep has been chaotic since the start of the primaries, but the ticking time bomb that is his attraction to Jensen has thrown everything  into such disarray that he hasn’t slept well, if at all, since the day they met.

Thank god for cat naps and a sympathetic staff.

“If you need, I can cancel a couple meetings you have scheduled,” Jensen says, already pulling out his iPhone.

“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks, Jen,” Misha says quickly, praying Jensen doesn’t notice the sudden use of the nickname. They’ve only known each other a week and this is probably the longest conversation they’ve had.

“At least let me push them back a bit,” Jensen compromises. Before Misha can open his mouth to protest Jensen adds, “You’re exhausted and everyone can tell. Just let me push them back two hours.”

“Fine,” Misha says finally. “You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that.”

“I would’ve gone to Jim if you tried to refuse again,” Jensen replies with an easy smile.

“Been here a week and you already know who’s really in charge. I must be losing my touch.”

Misha doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep on the plane until Jensen wakes him up with a gentle shake upon landing. He rubs his eyes blearily and takes in the fact that the shades have been pulled, he’s covered with a blanket, and the only reason he’s not suffering from a painful crick in the neck is from the pillow wedged between his head and the cabin wall. He knows it was all Jensen’s doing and he’s more grateful than ever for his new aide when he’s back in his own bed and dead to the world. He can’t stop the ludicrous notion that pops into his head saying that Jensen did all that - the shades, the blanket, the pillow, pushing the meetings back - because he liked him.

\--

 “How did you wind up in Boston, that’s what I’m still wondering,” Misha says, as Jensen climbs into the seat next him.

They’re on the campaign bus, driving away from crushing defeats in Indiana and Ohio and heading towards Illinois. Misha’s typically good spirits have been knocked down a few dozen pegs with the losses. Indiana and Ohio are both major swing states and, if Misha wasn’t able to get support out of them - from his own party, no less – then what can that mean for him if he becomes the candidate? Besides, they’ve now fallen behind in the race. After having the lead for so long, the media is having a field day with the news.

“I mean, a Texan that far north seems an odd sight,” he jokes, trying to mask his disappointment and evade the condolences he’d seen forming in Jensen’s mind since they’d gotten the news. Jensen, to his credit, takes the hint that Misha doesn’t want to talk about the results. He and the staff had already done so long into the night before.

“It’s not so odd,” Jensen says. “I was doing some volunteering at your Baltimore office and wanted to get more involved in the campaign. I went up to Rhode Island for a friend’s wedding and visit some friends who volunteer at your office there. The call for a new aide ASAP came through during my visit. I was the only nearest person with the most qualifications so…” He smiles bashfully after a moment’s pause and adds, “The fact that it was a paying job helped too.” He pauses again then says, “I should’ve spiced that story up a bit. Added in a fight to the death over who would get the position or something. A race from Providence to Boston.”

Misha laughs. “Nah, I’d just gotten it in my head that you were sitting somewhere in Texas twiddling your thumbs and decided to hop on a plane to Boston in the death throes of winter for funsies.”

It’s Jensen’s turn to laugh as he pulls a bag of gummy bears from his shoulder bag and tosses it to Misha.

“I haven’t seen you eat since yesterday’s lunch,” he says by way of explanation.

“And your solution to this is gummy bears?” Misha asks incredulously. He opens the bag anyway and eats a handful saying, “I don’t consider these things to be actual food, you know,” before offering the bag back to Jensen.

“What should I have given you to eat instead?”

“A unicorn.”

Jensen’s laughter plays on a loop in Misha’s head for the rest of the day.

\--

About two months into Jensen’s employment, Misha’s somehow managed to convince himself that what he feels for Jensen is really just an infatuation. Mostly. There are certain times when his heart skips a beat or two (or three) and he’s momentarily winded. He’s positive he’s blushed on a couple separate occasions when they’ve brushed shoulders, and doesn’t that embarrass the hell out of him.

The problem with Jensen is that Misha’s been attracted to women all his life and yet Jensen has managed to throw every notion Misha’s ever had about his sexuality out of the window. He’s found a way of creeping – unbidden - into every sexual fantasy Misha has stashed away in his arsenal. He’s even wormed his way to number one on Misha’s speed dial, though Misha’s fairly certain that that happened purely out of job necessity.

 _It’s a good thing Jensen’s straight as an arrow_ , Misha thinks, as he cleans himself off from another ultimately frustrating round of masturbation where Jensen had replaced the Victoria’s Secret model mid-coitus.

Maybe he should just fire Jensen. Send him back to Boston or Providence or Texas or wherever the hell he’d come from. Just get rid of him.

He won’t, of course. He enjoys being around Jensen, despite the unending sexual frustration. The camaraderie that’s sprung up between them in such a short time is a surprising one. No one has learned Misha’s personal language as quickly as Jensen has and their bantering is something Misha looks forward to on a daily basis.

Jensen’s fit himself rather seamlessly into the campaign as well. Besides being the best assistant Misha’s ever had, Jensen’s been able to stay mostly out of a lot of the ego wars and step in as mediator between whatever the current warring parties are when Misha’s too busy to get directly involved himself.

Misha might even call it close to perfect - as perfect as a political campaign can be, of course - if it weren’t for the continued pangs of longing he feels whenever Jensen’s around.

But, if Misha’s life has taught him anything quickly, often, and in the hardest way possible, it’s that you can’t have everything.

\--

At the end of June, the  _Collins for America_  campaign finds itself in Hawaii, the site of the final primary before the National Convention in August. Tensions feel higher than normal with everyone crammed inside the established campaign office instead of enjoying all that Hawaii has to offer. The only saving grace is that they’ve scheduled a few days where they can just enjoy the place and have the first real vacation any of them have gotten since the primaries started.

Misha’s on the stage at a rally, speaking to a mass of supporters when the results come in. He sees Jared off to the side, waving his arms over his head to get Misha’s attention and his words trail off as Jim approaches the podium. He gets close to Misha’s ear, beard tickling Misha’s cheek as he whispers quickly, “We got Hawaii.”

“We got Hawaii?” Misha repeats, the mics picking up everything and the sudden noise is deafening.

“Need you to go over there and kiss Genevieve,” Jim continues quietly, while embracing Misha tightly, clapping him hard on the back. Misha sighs in exasperation.

“Yeah, because kissing a married woman will send them a great message about family values,” Misha responds just as quietly. There’s really no need to speak so softly at this point. The crowd is so loud he doubts they’ll be heard should the mics pick them up.

“Just for the cameras, Mish,” Jim says.

“Integrity, Jim, that’s all I ask,” Misha responds, smiling and clapping a hand on Jim’s shoulder because the cameras are still on them and they can’t look like they’re having an argument.

He goes over and gives Genevieve a gentle kiss on the cheek, because – according to polls – some voters are worried about the lack of a female presence in his life and this will somehow prove something.

As Genevieve offers her congratulations, and Jared drags him into the bear hug to end all bear hugs, Misha glances over at Jensen. His expression is hard to place, especially when the rest of the campaign staff are coming up to offer their own congratulations. The second he sees Misha looking at him, he looks away and it all clicks.

He looks hurt.

Misha’s brain immediately kicks into overdrive, trying to work out this new puzzle that Jensen’s laid before him. When he opens his mouth to offer his thanks to the crowd and give some kind of victory speech, nothing comes out at first. When he does find the right words, he stumbles over them. Misha backs off the mics to take a breath and push thoughts of Jensen aside enough to get through the speech, knowing he’ll be able to play it off as being overwhelmed by the news. When he gets back to the podium, his mind’s still racing, but the words come out right.

They’re all back in the campaign office and, as the alcohol flows more freely, the more the staff loosens up. Jim and Sam are downing shots like pros, a small betting ring cropping up around them. Jared’s boisterous laughter floats above the rest of the din as he sits on a couch with Genevieve in his lap, acting like newlyweds. Ben and Jeremy are keeping to themselves seeing who can come up with the dirtiest limerick. Clif, celebratory beer in hand, keeps his ever watchful eye over the crowded space.

Misha’s been careful with his drinking all evening as he’s still mulling over the expression on Jensen’s face when he’d kissed Genevieve at the rally. Surely Jensen knew it was all an act? He’d been there for the meeting when Jim had proposed the idea. He’d seen Misha pitch a fit over it and he’d gone strangely quiet during the conversation. Misha had commented on it.

Though he hasn’t left the office, Jensen’s been avoiding him all night. He’s currently by himself in some secluded corner, slowly nursing a bottle of Jack. Misha knows that going over there and confronting him with the idea that’s taken root in his mind would be a bad idea. Jensen’s keeping his distance for a reason. So Misha respects his desired space as he makes his way around the party.

He can feel a pair of green eyes on him every few minutes.

Misha’s going for his fourth beer when Jensen grabs Misha’s wrist and drags him into Jim’s office.

“Jensen, what the hell are you-“ Misha starts but is cut off by Jensen pressing him up against the door. It’s the start of every fantasy Misha’s been having recently. Admittedly, Jim’s office wasn’t the location of choice, but still. Jensen moves in even closer and Misha starts praying that Jensen won’t feel the erection that’s stirring in his pants.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” Jensen says quietly.

Their breaths mingle in the small space between them and Misha can smell the whiskey on Jensen’s been drinking. His heart is racing as he makes quick note of the fact that Jensen’s eyes are glassy from the alcohol and his cheeks are flushed for probably the same reason.

“Jensen.” It’s meant as a warning, but he can tell his intentions are lacking.

“I hadn’t gotten a chance to, yet,” Jensen’s hand cups Misha’s jaw as he leans in and softly kisses Misha on the corner of his mouth. “Just wanted you to know that,” he breathes, against Misha’s lips. Jensen makes an aborted move towards him. To try and kiss him again? Misha doesn’t know, doesn’t entertain the thought for long because Jensen’s drunk.

Jensen’s drunk and Misha’s not and he can’t let this go any further.

Jensen starts to pull away but Misha, in a fit of stupidity, grabs Jensen’s wrists, stopping his retreat. Jensen takes Misha’s actions as an invitation to push a little further into the space between them. Misha swallows loudly, wanting nothing more than to shove his tongue down Jensen’s throat. Jensen seems to sense this desire because he presses his groin against Misha’s hip.

Shit, he’s hard.

Misha tamps down the moan that tries to make its way past his lips, thankful that Jensen’s standing in such a way that he can’t feel Misha’s answering erection. Jensen’s whiskey scented breath hits him again, snapping reality back into place, and he hastily pushes Jensen back a safe distance.

“Thanks, Jensen,” Misha says after taking a few calming breaths to clear his head.

Jensen, eyes now focused firmly on the ground, gives a small derisive snort.

“I mean that, Jensen,” Misha says sternly even as he fumbles for the doorknob that’s been pressing painfully into the small of his back this whole time. “Thank you.”

He opens the door and slips out of the room before he changes his mind.

\--

Misha spends the rest of the trip in a haze of distracted thought. He can’t focus on anything except Jensen, who avoids him completely. Misha appreciates the space because it lets him think, but he also hates it for the same reason.

Part of him is in constant fear that he’ll get a letter of resignation from Jensen, that he’ll wake up one morning and Jensen will have gone. He’s going to have to talk to Jensen at some point; he’s his personal assistant for Christ’s sake. The only reason they’ve had the luxury of avoiding each other this long is because it’s a vacation and there’s nothing for Jensen to personally assist him with.

… Okay, so there’s one thing Jensen could personally assist him with.

\--

On their last night in Hawaii, Jim - having had enough lying around – calls a meeting to discuss what to do next over dinner.

Their table is on the restaurant’s outdoor patio and Misha’s sitting next to Jared and Genevieve; which means he’s also sitting near Jensen. He’s glad Jensen and Jared have become such fast friends, glad that Jensen wasn’t alone the whole time in Hawaii. He can’t help being a little jealous, though. He and Jensen had plans to hang out together once the primaries were over but that all went to shit after the kiss and Misha has been left almost completely alone with his thoughts. Sam, the godsend, managed to provide some distraction, but their conversations would always inevitably turn to the campaign.

Jim keeps everyone at the table on topic for most of the night. Misha’s mind is, as it has so often been since the party, on Jensen. He contributes to the conversation as much as he needs to, even leads it a couple of times, but otherwise he sits and tries to come up with the best way to talk to Jensen about what happened.

He wonders if maybe Jensen was just _that_ drunk and hadn’t meant to kiss him. But why would he avoid him if it was just a drunken mishap? There was too much intent for it to be an accident. The way his lips pressed against his skin, the heat of his body, the smell of whiskey, the way he’d pushed himself against Misha, showing him how hard Misha made him…

“You okay, Mish?” Genevieve asks, cutting through his thoughts like a knife.

“Yeah,” Misha says, clearing his throat softly when his voice cracks awkwardly. “Again, Genevieve, I’m so sorry that you were a pawn like that at the rally.”

Genevieve shrugs. “Hey, I got a free trip to Hawaii out of it. Kissing the party’s presidential candidate for the cameras seemed a pretty even trade.”

“You were already in Hawaii when Jim coerced you into doing it,” Misha points out.

“I’m still counting it.”

Misha can feel Jensen’s eyes on him, staring like he’s trying to bore holes into Misha’s body with his gaze. When Misha makes eye contact, Jensen looks away with an indecipherable expression. Misha makes a mental note to not try to best him at poker, and makes another to set up a game between the staff - they haven’t played since Oklahoma. He then shoves those thoughts aside in favor of striking up a conversation with Genevieve and Jared.

“So, if I do become President, what will you and Jared talk about? Because Jared will be my Deputy Chief of Staff and he won’t be able to talk to you about work without you, as the White House Correspondent for _The Post_ , being obligated to report it.”

“And then you’ll have a huge White House leak and a threat to national security on your hands,” Genevieve says, sipping her wine and grinning. Thank god for Genevieve Padalecki and her ability to play along with him. Jensen’s staring at him again and he needs the distraction.

“Exactly, I’d have to fire him.”

“And he’d most likely go to jail,” Genevieve adds.

”And then where would you be?”

“You could always pardon him.”

“I dunno,” Misha says playfully. “Compromising national security is a pretty big offense. I suppose I could avoid the whole debacle by making you a part of my staff.”

“Oh yeah, doing what?”

“You could be Jared’s personal assistant.”

“I already do that, what else you got?” Genevieve says with a laugh.

“Well, since you like the Press Room so much, you could be the Deputy Press Secretary. Sam’s already my main lady for dealing with you guys.”

Sam glances over at them when she hears her name and flicks some of her water at Misha. “Don’t talk about me behind my back,” she chastises. He smiles, leans over, and kisses her on the cheek. He’s baiting Jensen and he knows it, but over the past few days he’s grown increasingly bitter about this whole _thing_ that’s going on between them and he’s finally reached his snapping point and Jensen Ackles can seriously go fuck himself, that childish asshole.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, pulling back.

“Samantha and Misha, kissin’ in a tree…” Genevieve sing-songs teasingly.

“Yes, Samantha, would you do me the honor of being the woman I kiss at public events to somehow show the tiny percentage of people who are nervous about a bachelor taking office that I’m both heterosexual and understand family values?”

“Only if I get a raise,” Sam says.

He goes to kiss Sam again, but they’re interrupted when Jensen suddenly gets up from the table and storms off.

“Jensen?” Jeremy calls, already starting to get up.

“I’ll go,” Misha says, pushing back from the table and heading off in the direction Jensen had gone.

He finds him standing on the beach, well out of sight from the table. He knows some of the security detail is following him, but he waves them off testily. While he’s pretty sure the crashing waves will mask their conversation, he still doesn’t want anyone listening in.

“Jensen?” Misha asks to announce his presence, standing a respectful distance behind him. He adds a, “Hey, man, why’d you leave?” because he wants to give Jensen control of the conversation even though he knows perfectly well why Jensen left. Or, at least, he has a good idea.

“I felt like it.”

Misha rolls his eyes at the deflection, feeling his blood pressure go up a couple notches. “Don’t be a child, Jensen. Something’s up and I want to know what it is.”

“It’s nothing.”

Oh, that is _it_.

“Bullshit. This is about you kissing me in Jim’s office.”

So much for subtlety. Jensen’s whole body tenses and Misha can’t help but flinch, his anger gone in an instant. They stand in silence for several long moments before Jensen’s shoulders lose a little of their rigidity.

“If you don’t mind,” Jensen says finally, “I’m not feeling too good so I’m going back to the hotel. If you could do me a favor and make my apologies for having left so abruptly, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“Jensen, we’re gonna have to talk about it at some point. You’ve been avoiding me this whole time.”

Jensen turns to walk back to the hotel and Misha hopes to get a good look at his face, but it’s in shadow. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut to steel himself up for whatever he’s about to say next. Misha finds himself bracing for impact.

“Look, _sir_.” The word makes Misha’s stomach drop. Jensen hasn’t called him ‘sir’ since they met. “I’ve got a killer headache and would like to be left alone. “

“Jensen, if you want an out, I’ll give it to you, okay? You were drunk at the time, it was a mistake, you’re sorry, and I forgive you. There. It’s like it never happened,” Misha says.

The pregnant pause that follows alerts Misha to the fact that things are still not okay between them, not by a long shot. His suspicions are confirmed when Jensen says, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and brushes past him.

Misha takes his time going back to the restaurant, mind abuzz with his brief conversation with Jensen and more than a little pissed off. He makes Jensen’s apologies like he was asked and shrugging off the questions he’s thrown. When Clif starts lecturing him about the dangers of running off by himself, he silences him by pointing out that - if Clif was so concerned about his well being - he should’ve followed him himself. There’s a long stretch of silence after their heated exchange and conversation is slow to start up again. A dark cloud seems to hang over the table for the rest of the night, and Misha stays silent.

\--

Neither of them mentions the kiss again for the next month. Jensen seems to have opted for Misha’s out and is choosing to pretend like it never happened. Misha respect this for the sake of their friendship, but that dark cloud from the dinner still hangs over them. Their conversations have suddenly turned all business and are brief. It puts Misha on edge and the increased tension between them seeps into the rest of the campaign staff like a virus. It’s a week until the convention, and everyone’s snapping at each other more than usual. Misha tries to keep the peace as best he can, but it never holds for very long.

At the end of another seemingly endless day of meetings, Misha crashes into one of the chairs in Jim’s living room, barely opening his eyes when Jim holds out a glass of something alcoholic to him.

“Thanks,” He mutters, taking the glass and cradling it to his chest protectively as Jim settles into the chair opposite him.

“So, Pellegrino,” Jim starts.

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. He’s the list,” Misha says definitively. He takes a sip of the drink Jim gave him, lets it burn down his throat before saying, “He’s smart, he’s got more political experience than I do which is something I’ve been getting ripped apart about and you know it. Having him as my running mate would show that I have a good second-in-command and confidant.”

“Misha, the Vice Presidency is a pointless office and everyone knows it. You’re sure you want to put Pellegrino in a position where he doesn’t get to do anything?”

“Mark and I have been talking about this since Hawaii. He’s helped us out already by getting a substantial number of his backers over to our side after his concession speech and I’m pretty sure the ones holding out will follow if we have him as running mate.” Misha pauses, takes a sip of his drink and grins. “Besides, he’s the California Congressman and I’m the Senator of Massachusetts. We run together and the media gets to have a whole ‘East Coast meets West Coast’ shtick that should keep ‘em happy for a while.”

Misha can see the gears whirling in Jim’s head as he thinks, but knows he’s won the argument before Jim’s even opened his mouth.

“You’ll have to get the approval of the rest of the staff.”

“Of course. I thought that went without saying.”

Jim smiles. “Truth be told, I’d kept him in the back of my head as a possible running mate for you.” Misha raises his glass in a mock toast and takes another sip while Jim leans forward and fixes Misha with a sharp glare. “On a more serious note, what’s up with you and Jensen?”

Misha nearly chokes on his drink. “I’m sorry?”

“You two have been nothing but a ball of tension since Hawaii,” Jim says. “Did something happen between you?”

“No,” Misha bluffs quickly.

“Then what’s up?”

“Nothing. We’re both just stressed, like everyone else.”

“It’s not a good sign that everyone’s this on edge at this stage in the game, Mish. It’s all uphill from here.”

“I know, I know,” Misha groans, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He lets himself think for a moment before saying, “I think everyone’s just… We’ve got the party’s approval but we don’t have an opponent yet so we’re just sitting on our hands waiting to find out who they’re going to be.”

“You think that, once Morgan comes to his senses and drops out and we know for sure it’s Lehne, everyone will straighten up and fly right?”

“Yeah. I really do.”

“Good. I really didn’t want to have to give everyone a speech,” Jim says.

Misha huffs out a small laugh and looks at his watch. “Fuck me, I should go home and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I should too,” Jim says, stretching as he gets up and taking Misha’s half drunk glass from him. “You know, Misha,” Jim calls as Misha reaches the front door. “You don’t want to talk to me about Jensen, fine. But I know something went down in Hawaii. Now, I agree that part of the staff’s problem is this holding pattern we’re in, but that’s only half of it. The other half is coming solely from you two. So you better talk to him because the tension between the two of you is affecting everyone else.  He’s your friend, your employee, and you’re both adults, so talk it out. ”

“And you said you didn’t want to give a speech,” Misha says, trying to go for teasing and failing if the death glare Jim levels him with is anything to go by.

“Just think about what I said,” Jim says.

Misha leaves without another word.

Sleep. Yeah right. Like _that’s_ going to happen.

\--

He doesn’t get a chance to have his talk with Jensen.

He tries, he really does, but he hardly has time to eat over the next couple of days, let alone have a long sit down with Jensen.

The Convention is held in North Carolina. Four days of speeches from some of the biggest party members as they adopt a comprehensive platform and come together in support of their chosen candidates.  Both Mark and Misha’s nominations are met with thunderous applause as are their acceptance speeches. When they stand together onstage as running mates for the first time, Misha’s sure that he’s going to go deaf from the noise which can probably be heard two towns over.

The party that follows goes long into the night. Misha honestly thinks it will never end. While he’s always been more extroverted, the convention has absolutely drained him instead of recharging him and every time his mind turns to the long road ahead to the White House, he tires a little more. He’s completely exhausted by the time the “final” music act takes the stage, but he can’t skip out on his own party, not when there are still several people he hasn’t thanked yet for their support.

He constantly keeps an eye out for the other members of his staff - the people he needs to thank most of all - but it’s difficult with the constant distraction of more conversation. He won’t deny that a lot of crowd searching is really searching for Jensen. After tonight, the campaign is really going to kick into high gear, moving much faster than the race for the candidacy and Misha’s worried that if he doesn’t talk to Jensen soon – tonight - they may never get around to it.

Misha manages to get together with his staff towards the end of the evening, as the rest of the attendees begin to disperse. He makes sure to thank each of them individually for getting him this far in the race, but when he asks about Jensen’ conspicuous absence, Jared says that Jensen had left the party an hour ago.

Fully intent on downing some Advil, taking a shower, and then sleeping for as long as he can, Misha returns to his hotel room half an hour later. He’s only managed to loosen his tie and kick off his shoes when there’s a knock on the door. He closes his eyes, lets out a tired sigh, and wishes the person would just go away  before calling, “Who is it?” over his shoulder.

“It’s Jensen.”

Misha sighs again, seriously thinking about telling Jensen to fuck off and let him sleep.

“Can I come in?” Jensen asks through the door.

Misha hauls himself over to the door and takes a look through the door’s peep hole to buy himself a few more moments alone. Jensen shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, eyes on the floor, hands in pockets, looking like a little kid who’s been sent to the principal’s office.

Misha opens the door a bit, standing between door and jamb so Jensen can’t enter.

“What do you want, Jensen?” He grumbles, rubbing at one of his eyes. “I was really hoping to, y’know, _sleep_ at some point this week.”

“I wanted to have that talk with you. About Jim’s…” Jensen trails off.

Misha sighs and opens the door wide, stepping to one side to allow Jensen passage.

“Yeah, sure,” he says as Jensen steps through the door. He lets the door swing shut with a satisfying click behind him and turns to face Jensen who hasn’t gone much further into the room. “I gave you an out, Jensen. I thought you took it.”

“I _thought_ about taking it,” Jensen says. “But we both know the kiss wasn’t an accident. My feelings for you have been affecting my ability to do my job for too long, you need someone who can actually concentrate on the task at hand.”

“I’ve been willing to overlook what happened so far and I’m willing to continue doing so for the sake of both our friendship and our professional relationship as well.”

“Sir, I-“

“Jensen,” Misha interrupts, “just shut up.”

He makes his next moves quickly, limiting the amount of time Jensen could have to rebuke him. One hand comes up to cup Jensen’s jaw, the other already moving to block the hand Jensen raises instinctively in self-defense. He gently presses a chaste kiss against the corner of Jensen’s mouth in a strange parody of what Jensen had done in Hawaii.

He pulls back, suddenly realizes how chapped his lips are, and belatedly wets them with his tongue. He makes a quick survey of Jensen’s surprised face, the quiet “oh” being the only response he’s likely to get. So he leans in and kisses Jensen again, this time on the lips.

Jensen’s mouth opens under his slowly. He’s being too cautious for Misha’s liking, and he gently licks into Jensen’s mouth as an act of reassurance, swallowing down the soft moan that bubbles up from Jensen’s throat. Jensen initiates the next one, smiling into it as he wraps his hands around Misha’s back.

It’s probably the slowest burning make out session Misha’s ever been a part of. He loves it. The unhurried exploration of each other’s mouths, the gentle and somewhat hesitant sucking of lips and tongues, the accidental clacking of their teeth against one another’s as their pace gradually intensifies. It drives Misha wild.

“I thought you were straight,” Jensen murmurs when they briefly break apart for air.

“I am.  It’s just you, Jen.” He recaptures Jensen’s mouth with his to start another round of kissing, desperate to learn every nook and cranny of Jensen’s mouth by the time morning comes.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the moment I laid eyes on you in Boston,” Jensen gets out between one kiss and the next.

“Would’ve made a move a lot sooner if I’d known you had even the slightest bit of interest in me.”

Jensen hums in amusement and Misha adjusts his stance so that their thighs slot together and he can give his growing erection some much needed friction. Jensen moans into Misha’s mouth, carefully steering Misha over to the nearest wall and pressing him up against.

“I had a hard on when you kissed me in Jim’s office that night,” Misha says.

Jensen huffs out a laugh as he grinds his own erection against Misha’s hip.

“No, I didn’t know that. Wish I had, though.”

“You were drunk,” Misha replies; gasping as he tries to find some kind of rhythm for their thrusts. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen when you were drunk.”

“How very noble of you. So we’ve had our talk?” Jensen asks, his hands dancing over the lapels of Misha’s suit jacket, obviously itching to take it off of him.

“Yeah, I think we’ve had our talk.”

“Yeah, okay, good,” Jensen says, tugging Misha’s suit jacket off and tossing it aside. He tries to get at Misha’s shirt buttons, but Misha’s also trying to get Jensen out of his clothes and their arms are getting tangled in their rush. “This is counterproductive,” Jensen says after another frantic kiss.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Misha replies, using the break to his advantage and shucking Jensen’s suit jacket off at long last. “Get your shirt off,” he instructs, already working on shedding his too constrictive clothing.

Misha’s out of shirt, undershirt, and tie before Jensen is, so he undoes his belt and fly before reaching over and undoing Jensen’s as well. He pulls Jensen back in and grinds their cocks together through the thin fabric of their boxers, groaning when he feels how hard Jensen’s become. Jensen’s eyes briefly flutter shut from the contact, and when he opens them again, he gives Misha an appraising look.

“Never seen you shirtless before,” he says. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Mish.”

Misha smiles, kisses him deeply, and rolls his hips to get some more friction. “Wait until you see me naked,” he says, gasping as Jensen lowers his head to kiss down his neck and his chest, a pitiful whine escaping his lips when Jensen laves his tongue over a nipple.

“No time,” Jensen mouths against Misha’s skin. “I needed to come like, two minutes ago.”

“Fuck, Jensen, please,” Misha mewls, hands scrabbling to find some purchase on Jensen’s body. Jensen moves back up to Misha’s mouth, hand still teasing the nipple he’d been sucking on. Misha huffs out a laugh.

“They always go for the right one,” he mutters to himself.

“It’s because of the freckle,” Jensen says, trailing a line of open mouthed kisses up Misha’s neck and grinding down hard on Misha’s cock. Misha’s head thuds against the wall behind him, groaning loudly as Jensen’s mouth sucks against the skin over his Adam’s apple. His mood hits a brick wall when he sees himself trying to explain hickies to a furious Sam. Bruises are a bitch to cover up and he has an interview tomorrow.

“Jensen,” Misha says, hand squeezing Jensen’s shoulder, to get his attention. Jensen must mistake it for encouragement because he starts sucking harder. “No, Jen. _Stop_.”

Jensen pulls off quickly, eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks, “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Misha says. “You just can’t leave marks where someone could see.”

“No marks,” Jensen agrees. “Right, got it. Sorry.”

Misha kisses him and rolls his hips against Jensen’s again, trying to find their previous rhythm. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, letting his eyes fall shut as he finds it.

Jensen’s tongue is hot in his mouth, drinking down the noises Misha’s making which are plentiful and, frankly, a bit embarrassing. Misha wasn’t a noisy person during sex. He’s never been one for the stereotypically wild, noisy hotel sex. But the simple act of dry humping Jensen had turned him into the vocal track of a bad porno.

“God,” Misha gasps as Jensen grinds against him particularly hard. “Please, Jensen.”

He’s not even sure what he’s asking Jensen for, but Jensen must just know because he picks up the pace of their thrusts, increases the pressure of each grind, and redoubles the intensity of their kisses until Misha finds himself clinging to Jensen for dear life, desperately matching him thrust for thrust. Each time Jensen bears down on his cock, Misha slides against the wall, back too slick with sweat to hold him in one place.

He’s not going to last much longer.

He must say something about it because Jensen leans in close to Misha’s ear to whisper, “Come on, Mish, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” before nipping at it gently then licking away any hurt his teeth have caused.

Jensen gives another hard grind against Misha and Misha’s head feels like it’s blown a fuse or two, his vision whiting out briefly as he comes in his pants. He hears a strangled cry coming from somewhere, and it takes him a second to realize that the sound’s coming from him.

When he comes back to himself, he’s shaking uncontrollably. The only thing keeping him upright is Jensen, who has his face buried in Misha’s neck and they’re both panting like they’ve run a marathon. Misha belatedly realizes Jensen must have come too.

He slowly reaches up and puts his arms around Jensen’s trembling body. “God, Jensen, thank you,” he breathes against Jensen’s ear. He presses an awkward kiss against Jensen’s jaw as well. The angle’s shit, but he thinks the intent gets across as he follows the kiss with a litany of ‘ _thank you thank you thank you_ ’s into Jensen’s ear.

After a moment, Jensen lifts his head from where it had been resting to smile and kiss him. Misha groans softly around Jensen’s tongue. It’s the slow and soft kind of kissing they’d been doing at the start, and Misha’s eyes flutter shut again at the inherent sweetness Jensen’s kisses have.

“This was a good talk,” Misha says when they break apart. “I’m glad we had it.”

Jensen laughs and asks, “Shouldn’t you be freaking out or something? I mean, you just had sex with another man.”

Misha laughs as well, putting his hand on Jensen’s cheek to say, “I’ve been freaking out since the moment I laid eyes on you, Jensen. Thank you, for this, really.” He gives Jensen a chaste kiss before dropping his hand.

The post-orgasm high he’s been floating on is rapidly wearing off. The come coating the inside of his boxers is cold and getting stickier by the second as it dries and the room starts feeling colder and colder as the sweat on his skin evaporates. Misha feels himself start to flush with embarrassment. Jensen looks to be in a similar state of growing discomfort when their eyes meet briefly before they both quickly look away. Misha’s not quite sure which of them starts laughing first, but soon they’re both in a fit of hysterics.

“Shit, I haven’t come in my pants like that since I was in high school,” Jensen says in between dying fits of laughter. He wipes at his eyes, looks at Misha, and starts laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Misha asks, laughing every time Jensen’s giggles die off only to start afresh.

“It’s just hitting me, you know? I just had sex for the first time in months. And I it was with you. And you’re my boss and a U.S. Senator and you’ve never been with a guy before and we wind up dry humping each other like a couple of horny teenagers and you look fucking debauched, man. It’s all just really funny to me right now,” Jensen says.

He moves back into Misha’s personal space and kisses him again. Misha opens his mouth to Jensen’s tongue immediately and they’re making out again before he knows it. His cock stirs again in his pants, hitting Misha with the reminder that he’s actually really uncomfortable. The inside of his pants are a disgusting sticky mess, he has an interview tomorrow, and he had really been hoping to get some sleep sometime this week. But he never wants to stop kissing Jensen. Fucking Jensen with his amazing lips and tongue and hands.

Somewhere along the way, their hips have slotted back together and Misha has started rubbing himself minutely against Jensen’s thigh in an attempt to get off again. His phone suddenly goes off in his pocket and they spring apart faster than Misha thought possible. He somehow forgets about the wall he’s been plastered against for the past twenty minutes, and his head smacks against it with surprising force.

“Ow, fucking ow,” he mutters, hand flying up to probe the impact area as he delves into one pocket, curses, then roots around in the other before coming out with his phone.

“Who’s it from?” Jensen asks, already moving to pick up his clothes.

“Sam. She sometimes texts me to make sure I’m in bed and not being a total insomniac,” Misha explains as he starts typing out a reply. The thought hits him like a freight train. “Oh, shit, you don’t think anyone heard us just now, do you?”

“No,” Jensen says. “I mean, you were making a ton of noise, but it was all really quiet. Maybe if someone had their ear to the door but otherwise no one could’ve heard us.”

“Good,” Misha says with a deep sigh of relief. He finishes the text to Sam and hits the send button before looking up at Jensen again.

A silence stretches between them, turning more awkward by the second.

“Are you regretting it?” Jensen asks.

“No,” Misha says. “God, Jensen, no. You have no idea what that meant to me.”

He pulls Jensen in to kiss him over and over, a whispered ‘thank you’ between each press of lips and swipe of tongue. Misha’s phone goes off again.

“Fuck,” Misha whines.

“Mmmm,” Jensen hums, resting his forehead against Misha’s. “I should go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Misha murmurs softly. He manages a quick kiss before Jensen moves off him. “Here, lemme help you,” he says, snagging Jensen’s discarded tie off the floor. Jensen’s already shrugging into his shirt and Misha hands him the tie once he’s got his shirt buttoned.

“Thanks,” Jensen mutters. “How do I look?”

“Well you don’t look like you just came in your pants while humping a presidential candidate, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 “Good,” he says with a laugh. He kisses Misha again, quickly, and says from the door. “G’night.”

“Good night, Jensen,” Misha says.

As soon as the door’s closed behind Jensen, Misha strips off the rest of his clothes, takes a quick shower to clean the sweat, come, and the day’s general grime off his body, and then crawls into bed naked.

He wants to drop into a deep sleep, it’s been his plan since he’d come back to the room, but he winds up lying awake staring at the ceiling. Again. His every thought consumed by Jensen, the campaign, and how this new relationship with Jensen will affect it. Finally, he falls into one of the worst, most restless nights of sleeps in his life.

His final thought before he drifts off is: He is so fucked.

\--

They find out that Morgan’s dropped out of the campaign for his party’s nomination the next day, making Frederic Lehne the only candidate still running. Lehne had been the frontrunner since day one in his primary campaign, and Misha’s staff had almost always discussed future campaign plans with Lehne in mind for their opponent. Some of their strategies would’ve needed reworking had Morgan come away with a surprise victory.

Lehne is also a dangerous opponent to have. He’s got more political clout and experience than Misha and Mark combined. Over the course of his political career, he’s served the state of New York by being a Governor, Congressman, Senator, and, for a time, a federal judge. The only branch he hasn’t severed in the U.S. government is the executive branch, and he’s working on fixing that. He’s wildly popular, and the voters in swing states tended to gravitate towards him during the primaries.

By the end of the day, Lehne’s already done an interview and slung some mud in Misha’s direction. Clips from the interview are being played about every two seconds on the news, with reporters pitching in to give their interpretation of what Lehne said and speculating on what Misha’s response will be.

Misha and the staff watch the news together, as has been their tradition since day one of the campaign, and to strategize a response to Lehne’s throwing down the gauntlet. He’s not entirely sure how the staff has once again crammed themselves into Jim’s hotel room, but they have. Sam, Jeremy, Ben, Jim, Jared, and Mark – who’s taking advantage of their standing invitation to join them now that he’s the running mate – are sitting on whatever furniture there is available. Misha opted to just sit on the floor.

“I’ve been in politics for a while so I really shouldn’t be surprised,” Mark says, as the clip from Lehne’s interview is shown again. “But this seems a bit too soon to me.”

“It’s what Lehne does,” Ben responds. “Every campaign I’ve seen him in, he pulls something like this right out of the gate.”

They’re currently watching Heyerdahl’s show where he’s busily praising Lehne’s mud slinging while taking everything Misha had said in his interview out of context. Misha learned to not let pundits like Heyerdahl get to him before he even thought about campaigning for the Senate, but there’s only so much he can take before he starts to feel his IQ drop.

“Change the channel, Jeremy,” he mutters after Heyerdahl yells more bullshit at the camera. “He’s giving me a headache.”

Jeremy jabs a button on the remote before tossing it carelessly onto the table covered with pizza boxes, empty beer bottles and Sam, who is perched on the edge. Instead of Heyerdahl, they’re on CSPAN, watching a recap of what happened in the House today. It’s their usual default channel, as it makes good background noise to the discussion that they’re about to have and keeps them on top of the goings on in Washington while they’re on the road.

Watching the speakers argue over legislation reminds Misha that he has to fly back to D.C. tomorrow to cast one of his last Senatorial votes before his term is up. He has a brief moment of panic when he can’t remember what the departure time is for his flight. When he looks around to ask Jensen, he remembers that Jensen’s currently talking to his family over Skype. He and Jensen had agreed to talk later tonight and, for the first time in weeks, Misha knows that they’re on good footing. Jensen had even stolen a quick kiss earlier this morning when he’d given Misha his schedule for the day.

He’s completely forgotten that there’s a conversation he should be taking part of, until Sam gently taps her bottle of beer against Misha’s head.

“You’ve gone quiet,” she says fondly.

“Sorry. What did I miss?”

“We were discussing your stance on the economy –“ Jeremy starts.

“Hang on, hang on,” Misha says quickly. “I’m gonna need a beer for this.”

“– and how Lehne’s policy is just going to hurt the middle and lower classes,” Jeremy finishes as Misha steals Sam’s beer and takes a swig. She smacks him playfully upside his head before grabbing a new one for herself.

“You know, Lehne’s candidacy isn’t technically official yet,” Misha says. “He still doesn’t have all the delegates he needs.”

“He’s the only one in his party in the race,” Jim says.

“I’m just saying,” Misha responds with a shrug. “We’ve got another month before it’s a done deal.”

“Well, he’s attacking you now. Do you want to fight back now or wait for another month?”

Misha smiles at Jim. “I love it when you take my jokes seriously. Now, what were we saying about the economy?”

\--

Misha stumbles back into his hotel room much later than he’d anticipated. Then again, all his meetings had run long today, so he supposes it’s par for course. He’s taken a shower and climbed into an old Harvard T-shirt and some pajama bottoms when there’s a soft knock at the door. Running a towel over his hair again, he pads over to the door and lets Jensen in.

“I really can’t stay long,” Jensen says as he enters. “We’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow and everything.”

“Yeah, I know,” Misha says. There’s an awkward pause before Misha closes the gap between them and kisses Jensen lightly on the mouth.

“How’s the family? Did you guys have a good talk?”

“They’re doing great, yeah,” Jensen says.

There’s another awkward pause, which makes Misha laugh. “We can’t shut up for five seconds while we get to know each other but the second we have sex we suddenly can’t think of a single thing to say,” he says, and Jensen smiles.

“The morning after is always awkward.”

Misha laughs again before gently pulling Jensen in for another kiss - deeper this time - his hand going back to softly card through the hairs at the nape of Jensen’s neck. Jensen opens to the kiss immediately, hands resting lightly on Misha’s waist. It’s like the night before, a slow exploration of each other’s mouths and bodies. Jensen is the first to break the kiss to speak.

“Really, really can’t stay long,” he murmurs. “It’s one of the earliest flights out to make sure you get to the Senate in time.”

“Yeah, I know,” Misha says, kissing Jensen again before adding, “I’m not looking for sex tonight. I just want to kiss you and be with you.”

“Okay, but I still can’t stay too long. You need to sleep.”

“Yes sir,” Misha says with a grin. He walks Jensen over to the bed and pulls him down onto it just so he can know what it’s like to have Jensen in his bed.

It’s pretty fantastic.

They continue kissing each other and Misha doesn’t want to do anything else for the rest of his life, but Jensen pulls back after another long moment to say, “We should really talk about this, shouldn’t we? Before it gets too out of control?”

“I stayed up almost all last night thinking about this,” Misha says with a sigh, “and I didn’t come up with any answers. I think, for now, we just play this by ear. We won’t touch in public, obviously. We’ll just be intimate when we’re alone.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the others?”

“Not yet,” Misha says. “Anyway, I’m not sure what I’d tell them. I’m still trying to figure _us_ out. Is that… is that okay? For now, at least?”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” Jensen says, smiling quietly. His hand rests on Misha’s neck, a thumb caressing Misha’s cheek fondly. “I haven’t figured us out, either.”

Misha dives back in for another kiss and they start their easy exploration of each other again until Misha’s officially riled up, his erection tenting his pajama bottoms. He guides Jensen’s hand to his groin where he presses himself into Jensen’s hand with a soft moan. Jensen smirks and pulls back.

“Sorry to be an absolute cocktease,” he says in a way that clearly says that he isn’t sorry at all. “But you need to get some sleep before tomorrow.”

“I would fall asleep faster if you’d get me off,” Misha points out, licking into Jensen’s mouth and kneading himself through his pants.

“You said you weren’t looking for sex tonight,” Jensen responds with a smile. He moves away completely, and Misha has a fantastic view of Jensen’s crotch, particularly how the fabric is straining from Jensen’s erection. “As I recall,” Jensen continues, “you wanted to kiss me and be with me. You’ve now done both those things. So goodnight.”

“I meant I wanted to be with you in the biblical sense,” Misha says. He smiles at Jensen, who shifts uncomfortably, his cock giving an interested twitch that Misha can see from three feet away.

“You specifically said no sex,” Jensen manages, voice growing hoarse. Misha has to hand it to him; Jensen plays along with him brilliantly even while under duress. “So I’m going to leave,” Jensen says firmly. “Let you sleep.” He leans in to give Misha a quick kiss, pulling away the second Misha makes a move to continue and get what he wants.

“Jensen,” Misha whines shamelessly.

“Maybe tomorrow night,” Jensen says, backing away to the door.

“You cocky bastard.”

“Go to sleep, sir. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Misha can’t help but smile as the door clicks shut behind Jensen. He pushes his shirt up to his chest, wriggles out of his pajama bottoms just enough to free his cock. It only takes a few strokes before he’s coming across his stomach. He makes sure to groan just loud enough for someone outside the door to hear and he’s rewarded with a bang on his door and Jensen’s voice calling, “Go to sleep, Misha.”

“You’re a goddamned pervert, Ackles,” Misha calls back, smiling broadly and swiping a tissue from the bedside table to quickly wipe himself off. He pulls his pajama bottoms back up, smoothes his shirt back down, and then crawls under the covers.

He grabs his phone and sends off a text to Jensen.

_YOU COULD AT LEAST RETURN THE FAVOR._

He sends it as a joke, not expecting any kind of response, let alone his phone going off a few seconds later.

“Jensen,” Misha says conversationally, not even checking the caller ID.

The only answer he gets is heavy breathing, a choked gasp, and a groaned “ _Fuck, Misha_.”

Misha’s cock tries to take interest in Jensen’s orgasm, but he’s come too recently so he just listens to Jensen come down from his high over the phone until his brain works enough for him to say, “Good night, Jensen.”

He’s about to end the call when Jensen - still a little breathless - says, “Night, Mish.”

Misha can’t remember the last time he’s slept this well.

\--

Despite their quasi-promise to have sex the next night, it doesn’t happen. They hardly touch each other for over a week because the shit has, once again, hit the fan in the Senate. Whenever Misha isn’t working on the campaign, he’s locked away in meetings with other Senate members trying to work out a way to get a piece of legislation through. He’d introduced it two years ago, and it has been getting volleyed from committee to committee to subcommittee to who knows who else ever since. The guys across the aisle keep bogging it down with detrimental riders and generally being uncompromising fuckwads.

Misha finds himself wondering if personally giving every member of the opposition blowjobs will make them more amiable to his cause. Then he remembers he’s never given anyone a blowjob before.  Jensen probably has. How could he not with a mouth like that? Then his mind goes off on a tangent about getting lessons from Jensen on how to blow and he looks like an idiot for asking someone to repeat their question because he wasn’t paying attention in a meeting he had organized himself.

By the end of the second week back in D.C., Misha feels ground to a pulp from the amount of deals he had needed to make just so his bill would pass. As such, it no longer really resembles the bill he’d originally put forth, but it’s still close enough in spirit.

All he really wants out of life right now is his bed, and Jensen to actually stay the entire night in it with him. Misha’s become frustrated with only having his hand for company these past few weeks, especially when he knows he could be having Jensen. They’ve managed a couple of brief make out sessions since North Carolina, but they’ll only tide him over for so long.

He scrubs at his face tiredly before leaning back in his chair, looking around his office because he can’t stand looking at the piles of paperwork anymore. He has to be at a dinner/fundraiser later to glad-hand a couple of potential backers and he can already tell it’s going to be a disaster.

Misha dreads fundraisers. Sucking up to people just to get the needed funds for campaign upkeep has always been the part of the job Misha can’t stand and he’s never been particularly skilled at it to begin with.

“Everyone hates doing it, Mish. Even the people who like it hate it. It’s a necessary evil, though, if you want to run a campaign.” Jim had said during Misha’s Senatorial race.

There’s a sudden knock on his door and Misha blearily looks at the figure standing there.

“How come I’ve been under your employment for half a year and I always forget that you’re in Russell?” Jensen asks, sounding out of breath.

Misha laughs. “Did you run here?”

“No, I ran to Hart. And then to Dirksen. And _then_ I ran here and up a ridiculous number of stairs because the elevator was taking too long.”

Jensen slumps into one of the chairs in front of Misha’s desk. His head tilted back, knees spread wide, and chest heaving. Misha fights the urge to get between those knees and ask Jensen to give him that blowjob tutorial. “Why did you run from Hart to Dirksen to Russell and up a ridiculous number of stairs?” He asks instead.

“The dinner. Sam’s been trying to get a hold of you, but your phone’s been off and, for some reason, she couldn’t get through to you on your office’s landline. The dinner had to be pushed up an hour because, due to unforeseen events beyond their control, a couple of your would-be backers need to skip out early.”

Misha curses and looks at his watch.

“So we should’ve been in the car by now.”

“Mark can cover if we’re a little bit late but yeah, we needed to be in the car and on our way by now,” Jensen says as Misha haphazardly shoves whatever paperwork he still absolutely needs to look over tonight into his backpack – because he simply refuses to own a briefcase.

“Let’s go,” Misha says, already brushing past Jensen and heading for the stairs.

They arrive only one minute late thanks to Clif’s speeding, a lax police presence so they could get away with speeding, and a quick drive through what Misha’s convinced was a blip in space-time, though Clif assures him it was just a shortcut he knew.

After the dining part of the evening, Mark and Misha hold a brief whispered conference to decide which of the backers are serious about giving them more of their money, which aren’t but could be persuaded, and which would be a waste of time and effort.

Misha’s starting to lag a little. He’d been banking on a quick nap during the hour he was supposed to have between leaving the office and arriving at the fundraiser. At this point, he’s running on fumes. Luckily, Mark is more than up to the task of covering some of the more difficult potential backers to give Misha time to recharge enough and get through the rest of the night.

That recharge comes in the form of Jensen, who gently pulls Misha away from the other guests and into the coat closet, shutting the door behind them.

“You look like you could use a bit of a pick me up,” Jensen says as he presses Misha into a corner so he’s completely surrounded by the coats hanging up, and hiding him from any potential prying eyes.

Misha briefly wonders how much Jensen had paid off the attendant he’d seen earlier to scram and if there’s a security camera that films the sexual liaisons that probably transpire in this room all the time. He wonders if anyone would find this tape and put it on YouTube and how he’d be royally fucked if that happened. But he trusts Jensen completely. He probably cased the place several times over before paying off the attendant and bringing Misha in here. Then Jensen shoves his hand down Misha’s pants and Misha stops entertaining ridiculous worry-induced fantasies in favor of bucking into Jensen’s hand and groaning into Jensen’s mouth.

It’s the first time Jensen’s actually touched him and his fingers are a tight fist around Misha’s cock, pumping him at an agonizingly slow pace. Every time Misha tries to speed things up by thrusting into Jensen’s fist, Jensen loosens his grip.

“Jensen, come on,” Misha hisses. “I need to get back out there.”

“Just five minutes,” Jensen whispers, giving Misha a hard stroke, swallowing Misha’s loud groan with his next kiss. “You’re tired, you’ve been grouchy all night, let me do this.”

Misha nods jerkily, his eyes fluttering shut when Jensen starts jacking him in earnest. He presses further into Misha’s personal space, interlocking their legs as he does so. His crotch pressing hard against Misha’s hip and Misha whines pitifully. He stills Jensen’s hand with a vise like grip before unbuckling Jensen’s belt and fly for him and pulling Jensen’s cock out.

He marvels for a moment at how easy it was to touch Jensen - to touch any man intimately - and hear the breathy moan that his hand elicits. The weight and heat of Jensen’s cock is both foreign but also completely familiar. It is just a cock after all, just not Misha’s own. Some precome beads at the slit as Jensen jerks his hips against Misha’s hand, making him snap back to attention.

“I’ll let you do this only if you get yourself off too,” he says, getting Jensen to wrap his hand around the both of them.

“Fuck, Misha,” Jensen moans as he starts to fist them both. Misha doesn’t want to take his eyes off Jensen for one second. He wants to memorize every facial expression, every sound, Jensen makes so he can replay them later.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Misha says, choking on the words because the added friction Jensen’s cock provides is making him lightheaded, he has to force himself to continue his argument for a quick orgasm when all he wants is to let Jensen do this to him for forever. “Five minutes,” he repeats. “And that’s pushing it. They’ve probably already noticed I’ve gone.”

“We’ll say you had a wardrobe malfunction,” Jensen breathes as he kisses along Misha’s neck.

“You get come on this suit, you’re fired.”

“Mmmm, I like a challenge.”

Misha whimpers at that, especially when Jensen nips at his skin. Then he berates himself for letting Jensen get the upper hand again.

“You’re wasting time,” he grunts, covering Jensen’s hand with his own and getting Jensen to twist slightly up on the upstroke. The sound Jensen makes sends him on a short ego trip.

They don’t talk after that, the silence instead filled by a series of increasingly dirty sounds - Jensen’s hand stripping their cocks, their combined precome easing his way, their lips and tongues meeting with each sloppy kiss as they rapidly approach their individual orgasms. Misha hopes no one can hear them. He _really_ hopes that no one comes looking for their coat. The thought of someone finding them sends a thrill down his spine and makes him impossibly harder. Apparently, exhibitionism is a hitherto unknown kink of his. He files that newfound information away for possible later use - like for when his entire career isn’t on the line.

Jensen comes first with a bitten back sob. His legs turning to jelly and he leans heavily on Misha, hips thrusting abortively into his fist as he continues to jack Misha roughly. Misha comes a second later, burying his face in Jensen’s neck to muffle the sharp cry that rips its way out of his throat as he spills over Jensen’s fist.

Misha knows they can’t stay like this for much longer. He’s been gone too long already, and his mind is racing with a thousand different lies – each more ludicrous than the last – that he can tell his guests. Jensen pulls away looking utterly fucked which can only mean Misha looks even worse, since he was the one shoved in among the coats. Jensen quickly wipes his come covered hand dry on one of the coats hanging up by Misha’s head, and tucks Misha’s cock back into his trousers as gently as possible, apologizing softly at the hiss that escapes Misha’s lips when he’s a little too rough with the oversensitive skin.

They check and double check Misha’s suit for come.

“Looks like you get to keep your job,” Misha jokes, kissing Jensen quickly before checking his watch. “Five minutes exactly, Ackles. Knew I hired you for a reason.”

Jensen smirks and leans in to kiss Misha again but Misha pulls back after a few seconds so he doesn’t tumble down the rabbit hole that is kissing Jensen.

“Yeah, right,” Jensen says, blushing slightly. “Guests, backers, campaign.”

“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” Misha adds, smiling gently at Jensen. “I hate to fuck and run but…”

“Yeah, go. I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Jensen says, gesturing to his disheveled appearance. He hasn’t even tucked himself back in and Misha once again fights the urge to ask Jensen for the blowjob lesson he’s been fantasizing about all week. He reminds himself that it would take too long and he needed to be back with the guests since before Jensen pulled him in here.

“Okay,” he says, allowing himself one more quick press of lips, then he’s out the door and making an easy excuse about an important phone call to the first person who asks where he’d run off to.

Jensen’s quick hand job has done the trick, though. Misha’s more alert and at ease than he had been when he’d shown up. He even manages to win over one of the backers he and Mark had written off as a wholly lost cause.

\--

September is easily one of the best months of Misha’s life. The campaign charges ahead full force now that Lehne’s candidacy has become official following his party’s convention at the start of the month. Misha’s work load quickly becomes even more insane, but it’s all okay because he has Jensen.

Misha had expected them to turn into horny teenagers, screwing each other on every available surface after their North Carolina hotel frot, but he’d been quickly proven wrong. The incident in the coat room, however, had opened the floodgates.

They’re still careful. Misha knows the second they even think about throwing caution to the wind, they’re in big trouble. There’s no such thing as being overly cautious when you’re a presidential candidate having mind blowing sex with your personal assistant. The fact that Jensen is the same sex as him is just the icing on the ‘completely fucked if we’re discovered’ cake. Every chance they get, though, Misha kisses Jensen until they’re both breathless.

If they have a lot of time, they can tease each other as long as they want, driving each other wild with touches before plunging over the edge and then spending several minutes after just being near each other. Sometimes, they’re forced to make it as quick and neat as possible with Jensen’s skilled hands pulling an orgasm out of Misha so fast it almost hurts.

Misha loves it when they can have hours alone, though those are often few and far between. He loves being able to map out every inch of Jensen’s body with his fingers and mouth, expanding on his library of sounds Jensen makes when they fuck and knowing that Jensen’s cataloguing him the same way. He loves it when they can lie in a bed, letting the sweat evaporate from their skin while they look at each other, gasping and panting for breath, gently touching one another as they ease down from their respective highs.

Sometimes, they don’t even have sex and instead talk for hours about any topic that happens to cross their minds. Sometimes, Misha does work; head resting on Jensen’s stomach as he reads the latest speech Ben and Jeremy have written for him out loud, making notes in the margins. Sometimes he rants about a substandard piece of legislation that’s making its way through the Senate while letting Jensen card his fingers soothingly through his hair. Other times, Misha lies with his head on Jensen’s shoulder while Jensen reads him the latest pulpy crime novel or the day’s paper, pressing soft kisses into Misha’s hair and him kissing any part of Jensen that’s near his mouth at any given moment.

There is something to be said, though, for the quickies. Misha loves the way he shakes and his heart races afterwards. Loves, in a strange way, the way Jensen’s come makes his fingers stick together if he waits too long to mop it off. He loves the way Jensen takes care of him afterwards, makes sure he looks presentable to the public again. They’ve yet to get walked in on or even have a close call. Misha’s always waiting for that other shoe to drop, though. It’s bound to happen eventually, no matter how cautious they are.

\--

It’s October when all of Misha’s decision to keep the staff in the dark about his and Jensen’s relationship comes crashing down around him.

Misha’s still not entirely sure why they’re showing up to the first debate in a limo, but he’s too nervous to fully question the how and why of transportation choice. He’s also busy thanking his lucky stars that Jensen is the only other passenger in the car to witness his pre-debate panic attack.

“You’d think that a man running for President of the United States wouldn’t get so nervous about talking in front of people,” Jensen teases from the seat next to him, not looking up from his iPhone where he’s no doubt currently deep in texted conversation with the rest of the staff.

“Not now, Jensen,” Misha says. His hands are shaking, palms sweaty, his heart’s racing a mile a minute, and he’s starting to think there’s not enough air in the car; not a good time for criticism – jokingly given or not.

Jensen smirks, finally raising his eyes to look at Misha just for his smile to quickly slip away.

“Shit, you look terrible.”

“Thanks. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming,” Misha replies, nervously licking his lips and trying to wipe the sweat off his palms on the leather seats with no luck. He glances at Jensen’s concerned face and lets out a frustrated sigh. “I just… Fuck…” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “This is okay. Just so long as I don’t start laughing. If I do, I’ll probably crack up during the debate.”

He feels Jensen move closer to him, a cool hand covers his too warm one, and the panic ebbs a little.

“What can I do?” Jensen asks calmly and then, more firmly says, “Misha,” to get Misha’s attention. Misha’s eyes snap to him at once. “What can I do?” he repeats.

“I don’t know,” Misha confesses.

“Do you want me to go over the notes with you again? Quiz you or something?”

“God, no. I’ll start second guessing myself when it comes time to answer and it’ll be all downhill from there. No. Thank you, but I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.”

He tries to give Jensen a reassuring or, at the very least, a sincere smile, but the look Jensen gives him informs him that he’s failed, in spectacular fashion too.

Jensen continues to scrutinize him for another second and Misha squirms under his gaze. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the attention in general, or if it’s Jensen’s attention specifically, but he’s probably fucked either way. How is he going to get through a whole debate with millions of people watching him if the gaze of a single person is making him fidget?

Jensen nods to himself after a second more then leans forward to tap Clif on the shoulder.

“Hey, Clif, mind taking a more scenic route? I think Misha could use a minute or two to calm down a bit and we’ve got plenty of time.”

“I’m fine,” Misha says sternly from the backseat. Clif glances at Misha in the rearview mirror and then shifts his eyes to catch Jensen’s. The GPS chirps about making a right turn at the next intersection, but Clif makes a left instead, giving Jensen a significant look that Misha’s sure can be seen from space.

“What are you doing?” Misha demands as Jensen hits the button that will raise the privacy divider.

“Taking care of you,” Jensen says, catching Misha’s mouth quickly for a short, chaste kiss.

Misha laughs, “I’m fine, really. Now tell Clif to turn around.”

“No,” Jensen says, putting his hand on the back of Misha’s neck and pulling him forward until their lips meet again.

Misha opens to Jensen’s tongue quickly, a soft moan escaping as his hands fist in Jensen’s suit jacket. Jensen smiles into the next kiss and Misha can’t believe what a monumentally stupid idea this is, but Jensen’s touch is like a drug that he can’t get enough of. Especially when Jensen’s hand makes its way south and ghosts over his crotch, making him gasp.

“Jen,” Misha whines, “this is such a bad idea.”

“I don’t care,” Jensen murmurs against Misha’s mouth. He brushes his hand against Misha’s crotch again for emphasis, making Misha keen. “Come on, Mish, let me suck you off.”

Misha immediately moves to press his back against the door, legs spread wide to give Jensen as much room as he needs to make quick work of Misha’s belt and fly. He lifts his hips when Jensen asks him to and Jensen pulls his pants down enough to get access to Misha’s cock, which is tenting the front of his underwear.

 “Christ, Mish,” Jensen says, pausing for a second to admire the view.

“Hurry up and get on with it,” Misha says.

Jensen smiles up at him and licks his lips. “Yes, sir.”

He pushes Misha’s shirt and tie up Misha’s stomach, out of the way of potential harm. Misha can’t be bothered to worry about his suit wrinkling when Jensen presses a kiss to his stomach making his hips buck and his erection slide against Jensen’s chest. Jensen smiles as he starts to mouth the fabric over Misha’s cock, laughing softly at the moan that escapes Misha’s lips. Misha’s hand falls heavily on Jensen’s head, his fingers tangle in Jensen’s hair, yanking hard enough to make Jensen look up but not enough to hurt.

“Get. On. With. It,” Misha hisses at him angrily, but they both know he’s loving every second of this.

Keeping his eyes locked on Misha’s, Jensen reaches into Misha’s boxer briefs and eases his cock out through the slit. He gives it a few experimental strokes before he flicks his tongue against the head, lapping up the precome beaded there, earning him a soft hiss from Misha, whose fingers tighten in his hair. Jensen wraps his lips around the head and suckles at it gently, eyes still trained on Misha. Any further reservations Misha has about Jensen’s plan go flying out the window as Jensen swallows him down. It’s still a terrible idea, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care. His head thunks softly against the glass behind him and Jensen’s eyes dart quickly toward the privacy divider, as though he’ll be able to see if Clif heard anything.

Jensen covers Misha’s mouth with his hand, as both a reminder and a warning. Misha nods, thrusting helplessly into the glorious wet heat that is Jensen’s mouth. Jensen removes his hand from Misha’s mouth and uses it to keep Misha’s legs spread; fingers lightly brushing against the soft flesh of Misha’s inner thigh as he presses his tongue against the underside of Misha’s shaft, moving back up to the head. His free hand wraps around the base and strokes what he can’t fit in his mouth in counterpoint to his sucks.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jensen,” Misha breathes, trying to thrust into Jensen’s mouth and stay still at the same time. “Anyone ever tell you your mouth was fucking made for this?”

Jensen hums around the head of Misha’s cock and Misha can’t help but thrust into Jensen’s mouth, not stopping until he feels himself hit the back of Jensen’s throat and feels the muscles flutter around him as Jensen swallows. Misha’s fingers in Jensen’s hair tighten so much that Jensen groans in pain, pinching Misha’s inner thigh sharply in reprimand. He immediately loosens his grip even as his hips buck again into Jensen’s eager mouth.

“Jen, please,” Misha manages to whine as Jensen carefully scrapes his teeth along the underside of the head.  His fingers tighten again in Jensen’s hair and then Jensen’s eyes flick past Misha’s head and he pulls off as fast as he can, eyes trained on something outside Misha’s window in sudden horror. He quickly swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, breaking the string of saliva and precome that had been running from his swollen bottom lip to the head of Misha’s cock. Misha comes at the sight, spattering Jensen’s hand and neck.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing!?” Jim’s voice booms from the other side of the door and Misha scrambles upright, realization of what Jensen had been looking at hitting him like a sack of bricks. His head whips around to see Jim’s reddening face glaring at them through the glass. He hadn’t realized they’d arrived at their destination. Hadn’t even noticed the car had stopped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jensen says over and over as Misha hurriedly stuffs himself back into his underwear and pulls his pants back up. By some minor miracle, none of his come had gotten on him. It’s just all over Jensen. It’s still worse than worse, but a whole hell of a lot better than if he’d had to do the debate with come stained pants.

Jim yanks the door open the second Misha gets his pants zipped. For a wild second, Misha thinks Jim’s going to hit him. He’s never seen Jim so angry in his life. That had to have been the worst idea he’s ever had. Letting Jensen blow him, what was he thinking?

“Get out of the fucking car,” Jim snaps. Misha hastily obeys, suddenly feeling like a horny teenager getting caught by the cops and not a grown man running for president and currently getting told off by one of his employees.“Make yourself presentable,” Jim growls, and Misha rapidly tucks his shirt back in, buttons his fly and buckles his belt again. A quick glance around shows him that no one else is there to witness this whole sorry mess. Jim yanks a handkerchief out of an inside pocket and tosses it into the car at Jensen.

“Clean yourself off then burn that thing afterwards. I don’t want it back. Clif, take Jensen back to his place in one of the other cars. You and I will talk later.”

Clif says something in the affirmative and Misha tries to at least give him an apologetic look for his part in Clif’s possible job loss, but Jim’s hand is like a vice around his upper arm as he’s dragged inside. His mind races with how he can make it all right again as he’s taken down a series of hallways and into the green room set aside of him and the staff. The staff which is now without Jensen and will probably always be without Jensen after today. Misha forces the bile that rises in his throat back down.

The rest of the staff look startled by Misha’s slightly rumpled state and Jim’s palpable rage. A glance around is all Misha needs to knows that they know that something’s gone horribly wrong. As he finally realizes just how badly he’s let everyone down and all because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, he almost gets crushed under the weight of how incredibly misguided his decisions regarding Jensen have been from the start.

“Look at me,” Jim says gruffly. Misha can’t think of anything he’d like to do less, but he slowly meets Jim’s eyes. Jim lets out a sigh and his expression softens one iota of a percent, which is the closest Misha thinks he’ll get to a sympathetic look given their current circumstances.

“Jim…” Misha starts. He has to explain himself, has to smooth things over before the damage gets even worse, but Jim cuts him off sharply.

“You’re going to go out there, and you’re going to wipe the floor with Lehne,” Jim says firmly. “You’re going to forget, for the next three or four hours, what I just witnessed. Once you’re done, you’re going to come directly to my office and we’re going to have a nice long talk about this. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Misha mumbles quietly. He’s nine years old, getting reprimanded by his father for fighting on the school playground again. Jim grabs the comb that Sam holds out to him and roughly gets Misha’s hair back into place. He quickly straightens his tie for him and steps back for a final check.

“You’ll do fine,” Jim says with surprising kindness.

Misha opens his mouth to respond or possibly vomit, but Jared’s already poking his head into the room to say, “Misha, you’re up.”

\--

True to Jim’s words, and after a shaky start, Misha trounces Lehne on almost every topic of the evening. He shakes Lehne’s hand as the applause continues around them and they share brief words of congratulations and concession to one another. It’s mostly for the camera’s sake, but they also do it because they can be civil to each other both on and off the debate floor. Misha makes his way offstage after a final clap on the back from Lehne and Sam quickly grabs his arm as he moves into the dimly lit wings so he won’t trip over any cables while his eyes adjust.

She pulls him off to the side and brings her mouth close to his ear. “We’ve got everything covered here. Clif’s going to take you back to the office. Jim wants to talk to you.”

Misha feels like the floor has vanished beneath his feet. He’d gotten so absorbed in the debate that he’d somehow forgotten about the disastrous blowjob. The post-debate adrenaline high quickly leaves his system, leaving him feeling cold and shaken. Before he can get a word in, Clif already has a hand on his elbow and is steering him in the direction of the car.

Jensen’s tiny desk at the office is empty when Misha walks in. Nobody else is around either, which is unusual on a normal night but unheard of on an event night. Misha shrugs out of his suit jacket and yanks his tie off, throwing them carelessly onto Sam’s desk. The mere sight of Jim’s door makes him feel breathless so he undoes the top buttons of his shirt, tugging at the collar of his undershirt to try and get it to lie away from his throat. It’s only after he rolls up his sleeves that Misha moves over to Jim’s door. He hesitates to knock, turning back to Clif, who apparently has orders to make sure Misha actually enters Jim’s office.

“Clif, I’m so sorry,” Misha blurts out. “I didn’t… we… Jensen and I…” he honestly doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, he just has to make things right again.

“It’s fine,” Clif says. He nods at Jim’s door adding, “You should get this over with.”

Misha swallows around the lump in his throat, turns back to the door, and knocks on it softly, as though in hopes that, if Jim doesn’t hear the knock, he can leave. He expects Jim to just yell at him to enter, but he comes to the door and ushers Misha inside.

There are three different TVs in Jim’s office, each tuned to a different channel with another live video feed playing on his laptop. Each screen displays coverage of the night’s debate. Sam’s talking to reporters on one television, Jared’s on another, another showing one of Lehne’s men, and the laptop plays clips of some of the more controversial responses. Misha’s not sure how Jim keeps up, let alone gets any information out of it.

“Sit,” Jim says, gesturing to one of the folding chairs in front of his desk.

Jim closes his laptop and turns off the televisions. Misha stares at a stain on Jim’s desk in the silence that follows, wondering what it’s from. It’s probably just the remnants of a pen explosion from some bygone era or condensation from a glass, but part of him jokingly wonders if it’s the blood of Jim’s enemies. He tries not to think about that for too long.

Jim sits in his far nicer chair and pulls out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers from god only knows where. He doesn’t ask, he just pours two heaping amounts in the glasses before pushing one across the desk to Misha. Misha tries to wrap his fingers around it, but his hands are shaking too badly. He lets it sit on Jim’s desk and quietly mock him, instead. It’s a good middle ground to stare at. Much easier than looking at Jim.

“You did good tonight,” Jim starts off, taking a sip from his glass. “Better than good, in fact, you were on fire tonight.”

“Thank you,” Misha murmurs under his breath, waiting of the other shoe to drop.

“Shame that it’s all gonna go to waste,” Jim says. Misha flinches before looking up because he knows Jim wants to look him in the eye for this. “Do you have any idea the severity of the situation you are currently in?” Jim asks.

“Is he fired?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Misha says. “I understand. Is he fired?”

“How long have you two been together?” Jim asks, completely ignoring the question.

“The convention.” He really wants that drink right now.

“Have you slept with him?”

“We’ve engaged in non-penetrative sex only, until today. He’s given me _a_ blowjob,” Misha says. “Just one; that you interrupted, but that’s it.”

“Have you performed sexual acts on him in return?”

Misha just barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “It’s the polite thing to do when someone gives you an orgasm, Jim. Yes.”

“I want us to be perfectly clear on this matter.”

“Handjobs, Jim,” Misha snaps. “He’s given me a singular blowjob. I’ve only touched him. I haven’t sucked him and I haven’t fucked him. And he hasn’t fucked me.”

“Misha,” Jim says after a moment, “do you understand the repercussions that will occur if the press finds out you’re not only having sex with your assistant, but that the relationship in question is a homosexual one?”

“I’m not gay.” Jim scoffs so Misha adds, “I’m straight, Jim. I’ve only ever been attracted to women.”

“But you’re getting blowjobs from your assistant. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Jensen is the only man I’ve ever been with,” Misha says, carefully enunciating each word. “I’ve noticed that during this inquisition you haven’t once asked me how I feel about him.”

“I don’t care how you feel about him.”

“I love him.”

He suddenly realizes he’s never said that those words out loud before in connection to Jensen, and Jensen’s never said it to him. The moment would typically warrant more analysis, but Misha can’t spare the necessary time right now. Jim’s pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly, and Misha knows their conversation is just getting started.

“The media’s gonna do a Lewinsky spin on this if they get a hold of it,” Jim says.

Misha purses his lips, scowling at Jim for a moment before looking away, eyes flicking around the office without taking any of it in. He takes a breath and finally manages to look Jim in the eye.

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” Misha says, keeping his voice as calm as he can.

“What question was that?”

“Is he fired.”

“That’s a thorny question.”

“Don’t you dare give me that bullshit. I’ve been answering thorny questions all day.”

“Misha, if I fire him we both know you’re just going to keep seeing him anyway. Hell, you’d just hire him back on. I know the two of us don’t really acknowledge it, but you’re my boss and, at the end of the day, I have to answer to you,” Jim says, sounding incredibly tired now. “I realize that, as I’m older than you and with our history, we often interact with our roles reversed, but you do not answer to me. I’m just an advisor and confidant, nothing more.”

Misha sighs, running his fingers through his hair before he asks, “What about the staff? Did you tell them?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you first. You should be the one to tell them anyway. They know something’s wrong, though.”

“What about Clif? He didn’t know about us, Jim, I swear.”

“I’m not gonna fire one of the best bodyguards I’ve ever worked with over something like this.”

Misha finally grabs the glass in front of him. If he grips the glass tight enough, he can stop his hands shaking enough to drink. He downs the contents in one go.

“What’s next?” Misha asks, setting the empty tumbler back on the desk with a dull thud.

“That depends entirely on you,” Jim says.

Misha licks his lips nervously and his eyes flick around the room once again.

“I can’t give him up, Jim. I won’t.”

“Then you come out about your relationship.”

“We both know I’m the long shot against Lehne no matter how well I do in the debates. Besides, most of the American people would never be able to wrap their heads around the idea of me being a straight man who’s in a relationship with another man. The second I have sex with a guy - just one - I’m automatically gay. We would lose the election in a second.”

“If you won’t give him up and you won’t come out about it then our only option is for you to drop out of the race, which, to my knowledge, is impossible at this stage of the game,” Jim says.

“Even if I could drop out, you know I wouldn’t.”

“Well, those are your options. Come out and possibly loose the election, or have everything blow up in your face later.”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

Jim looks at the clock on the wall and rubs his eyes tiredly. “Look, son, it’s been a long day for the both of us. Go home. Sleep on it. We’ll take it slow the next couple of days; figure out if and how we can salvage this. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Misha says quietly.

Jim makes his way around the desk as Misha stands to envelop him in a gentle hug. The gesture is more familial than any of the congratulatory hugs they’ve done for the cameras. His mind flashes to the last time Jim had hugged him like this. It was at his father’s funeral, and the memory makes Misha’s heart clench in his chest. His arms tighten around Jim’s shoulders as he lets out a shaky breath.

“I wish you’d been straight with me about this from the beginning,” Jim says, his voice gentle and a little sad.

“I know. I wish I had too,” Misha replies.

Jim breaks the embrace to hold Misha at arms distance. He gives Misha’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, a fatherly smile playing at his mouth. Misha can’t tell if it’s the booze, or the victory, or if Jim’s trying to put him at ease about what’s happened, happening, and going to come, but he accepts the offered comfort just as well.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Jim says. “About the debate. You knocked them dead, and I’m proud of you for that; and for coming clean to me about Jensen, even if I’m still not the happiest camper about it.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

“Go home, get some rest. It’ll be a late start tomorrow since I’m pretty sure half the campaign staff are getting drunk as skunks right now. Hangovers aren’t conducive to strategizing.”

Misha laughs softly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Get some sleep yourself, okay?”

“Sure thing, Mish.”

\--

Almost as soon as he’s through the door to his apartment, Misha’s calling Jensen. It takes several rings before the line picks up and Jensen’s sleep filled voice filters through the receiver.

“Misha?”

“Hey. Sorry if I woke you,” There’s a rustle of sheets, the clicking of a lamp being turned on. He hears what he can only imagine is the sound of Jensen scraping his hand over his face, skin catching slightly on his stubble.

“It’s no problem,” Jensen murmurs thickly. Misha hears a yawn. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Well, we did get caught with your cock in my mouth by your campaign manager today,” Jensen says.

“Technically, we were caught yesterday,” Misha says, allowing himself a smile as he slides down his door to sit on the cold hardwood floor.

Jensen hums in agreement over the line, but doesn’t respond more than that. The pause stretches into a long silence. Misha closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the door and just listens to Jensen breathing.

The signal crackles when Jensen sighs heavily. “I’m fired, aren’t I?”

“What? No, Jensen. You’re not fired.”

“Not yet anyway,” Jensen mutters darkly.

“Jensen, please,” Misha says; a slight whine to his voice. “Please, don’t. I can’t think anymore about what happened. I just got grilled by a moderator for four hours about domestic policies, and then Jim raked me over the coals afterwards about us, and I’m just so tired, and I need you. God, I need you so badly right now. I can’t think, and I just…”

“Misha Collins, is this a booty call?” Jensen teases, Misha picks up on the concern in his voice, though. Normally, he’d make a quip, but he’s too tired from the past six miserable hours of his life.

“No. I don’t even want to think about sex right now. I just need you here. I need you here with me, and that’s probably as bad an idea as when I let you blow me in the car earlier, but I don’t care.”

“Sure,” Jensen says softly.

Misha hears him slide out of bed, then the metal clinking of a belt buckle. He can picture Jensen struggling into a soft, worn pair of jeans with one hand still occupied with the phone. He imagines him standing there with the denim barely clinging to his hips; fly undone and underwear on display. So maybe sex was very much on his mind and had been the second he pulled Jensen’s number up on his phone. He needs the distraction, needs to shut his brain down for a while and forget how utterly fucked his life’s become.

“Sure,” Jensen says again, breaking Misha out of his reverie. “I’ll be over there in a few, okay?”

“Yeah,” Misha tries, but his throat closes around the word and he has to try again. “Yeah, Jensen, I’ll see you in a few.”

Misha hangs up before he has to hear the line go dead from Jensen’s end and tosses his phone across the room. It thumps against some piece of furniture before falling to the floor with a clatter. He buries his face in his hands, letting himself breathe for a few moments as he tries to collect his thoughts and put them in some kind of order. He scrubs at his face with his hands and looks around his apartment, but he hadn’t turned on any lights when he entered, so there’s nothing to see. He sighs heavily into the darkness before picking himself up off the floor. He blindly fumbles for a lamp, not wanting the overhead lights on because he knows they would remind him too much of TV police interrogation rooms.

Jensen knocks on his door ten minutes later, saving him from replaying his conversation with Jim for the hundredth time, if only for a few seconds. He still hasn’t completely changed out of his suit, though it’s in the same state it was in Jim’s office and, oh god, don’t think about Jim’s office.

“I don’t think anyone saw me come into the building,” Jensen says as soon as the door’s closed.

“Like that matters,” Misha remarks snidely.

“Like that matters anymore or like that matters at all?” Jensen asks.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Misha runs a hand through his hair distractedly. “I just… I just… I need…”

Jensen quickly steps into Misha’s personal space and kisses him softly on the mouth. Misha whines faintly at the intimacy and tries to deepen the kiss, but Jensen pulls away, smiling softly as Misha tries to follow with his mouth.

“I thought you said you didn’t even want to think about sex right now.”

Misha pulls him in for another kiss to shut him up. Echoes of their earlier make out in the car rings in Misha’s head as they kiss. He quickly intensifies it, desperate to make this experience as different as he can. He pulls Jensen in closer so he can slot their hips together, get one of his thighs between Jensen’s legs and grind his rapidly hardening cock against him. Jensen’s hands come to rest unmoving on his shoulders, making a twinge of panic settle in Misha’s gut. Maybe Jensen doesn’t want this, despite him kissing Misha first. When Jensen pulls away again, Misha’s feeling of panic worsens.

“Is this okay?” Jensen asks instead, which briefly throws Misha. “Us, I mean. Are we okay? I mean… Jim knows about us. You said he raked you over the coals about us. So are we okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jim wants to fire me.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not an idiot, Misha.”

“I know that. Please, just have sex with me, Jensen. I lied. Okay? I lied. It was a booty call or whatever.”

“Tell me what happened between you and Jim. I want to help.”

 “What’s to tell?” Misha asks. “I don’t have a lot of options, Jensen. I can come out about our relationship and lose the election because most of America is still in the Dark Ages. Or, I could win the election then probably face an impeachment when you and I are inevitably found out. I mean, it’ll happen sooner or later with Secret Service crawling all over the place. We could completely stop seeing each other or wait until my term ends to be together, but I can’t promise that I won’t run for reelection. Or, we could keep doing what we’re doing and have the entire campaign collapse around us when you and I slip up somewhere and are caught. Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if someone else had seen us today instead of Jim? If it had been a reporter? Or just someone with a phone on them?”

Jensen grabs Misha’s hands before he can rant any further. Misha immediately feels a little calmer, his breath coming to him more easily.

“So what are we going to do about it?” Jensen asks gently.

“I don’t know,” Misha whispers. He lets out a small self deprecating laugh. “I’m trapped.”

“You’re not trapped, Misha. We’ll figure it out. I promise,” Jensen says. He leans in to steal another chaste kiss from Misha’s mouth. “I promise,” Jensen whispers again before he kisses Misha’s forehead. “I promise.” He kisses Misha’s temple. “I promise.” He makes his way down Misha’s body, whispering promises between kisses as he goes until he’s on his knees, undoing Misha’s belt.

Misha takes a quick step back and says, “No, we… we should talk about this. We’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

Jensen nods after a moment and climbs to his feet. He takes Misha’s wrist and gently tugs him in the direction of the bedroom.

“Jensen,” Misha starts to protest, but Jensen cuts him off.

“It’s been a long day, and you have a long day ahead of you. Being in bed isn’t going to stop us from having our talk. Okay?”

“Okay,” Misha says, startled by how small his voice sounds.

He lets Jensen lead him into the bedroom, trailing him behind like a child, and help him strip down to his underwear. Jensen strips too and sinks down onto the bed, pulling Misha down with him. They lay facing each other like a pair of parenthesis, legs entangled.

“So,” Jensen sighs, “what do we do?”

Misha shakes his head as best he can from his current position. “I don’t know. Start with telling the staff. Sam needs to be told first. She needs to know so she can start coming up with a plan for if we get caught again.”

“We won’t get caught again. We just got sloppy today.”

“And we’ll get sloppy again. Sam should’ve known from the beginning.” He sighs angrily. “Everyone should’ve known from the beginning.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over something you can’t change,” Jensen says. “Let’s focus on damage control. We tell the staff, what else?”

“You’re in this too, you know.” Misha says, allowing himself a small smile.

“Fair enough,” Jensen says, smiling in return. It loosens the ball of tension that’s been sitting in Misha’s chest slightly. “Um… are you – we, I guess, going to go public?”

 “I’ll only ‘come out’ if it’s the last choice left available to me.”

“Not to play devil’s advocate or anything, but coming out might not be a bad thing. I don’t think I have to tell you how much good it would do to have someone as widely seen as you come out as being in a homosexual relationship and refusing to step down because of it. It would bring a lot of hope to teenagers… for _anyone_ living in fear of who they are.”

 “I know. God knows I’ve been struggling with that very thought this whole time, but... I can’t do it. There’s too much for me to lose. If I were still just a Senator, then yes, I’d do it in a heartbeat. This is a whole different ball game, though, and you know it.”

“So what’s going to happen to us if you get elected?”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out tomorrow with the staff and freaking out about how they’re going to react.”

“I’d just like us to be standing on more solid ground, is all.”

“I’m sorry, really, I am. I’ve just fucked this entire thing up from the get go and I’m having trouble figuring out where to even start picking up the pieces.” Jensen sighs and Misha knows he’s given Jensen the wrong answer, or - more accurately - the honest answer that Jensen doesn’t want to hear. “It’s politics, Jen. I can’t remember the last time I was on solid ground about anything.”

Wrong again. Jensen sits up and there’s a tension in his shoulders that Misha hasn’t seen since their disastrous conversation on the beach in Hawaii. Fuck. He sits up too, puts a hand on Jensen’s shoulder in some sorry attempt to make things right. Jensen shoves himself away from the bed and Misha.

“Jensen,” Misha tries, but Jensen’s shoulders tense even more. “If you want to ask me something then just ask me. You don’t have to beat around the bush.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“No, I really don’t.”

Jensen turns around, but he looks more frustrated than anything else. He runs a hand distractedly through his hair, eyes casting around the room as if the words he’s trying to find will be written on the walls.

“If you could drop out of the race to be with me, would you do it? I know it’s too late to do it, but, if you could, would you?”

Misha sighs; he’s too tired for the turn the conversation just took. There should be a limit to how many difficult conversations someone can have in one day and why he thought this would be short and simple, he doesn’t know. The only thing he’s done right recently was his performance at the debate. He wants this conversation over, Jensen not mad at him and in his bed with the promise of sleep and comfort.

 “No, Jensen.”

The answer startles him with how easy it was to say. Jensen takes a step back, looking as though Misha had punched him. Misha longs to take away that hurt look in Jensen’s eyes, but he knows that the damage is already done.

“I’m sorry,” he says, those words becoming too familiar in his mouth. “I’ve been working towards this my whole life. I’m making a selfish choice here, I know, but I would choose the job over you every time. This will always come before you and I’m sorry. I wish I could say that I’d pick you, but I wouldn’t.”

“So, if you get elected, that’s it? We’re done?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.”

“Just like that, we’re done.”

“Yes,” Misha says. He hopes Jensen can see the guilt on his face and not think he’s some cold-hearted bastard.

Jensen looks away, his face distorting briefly into something ugly, a horrible mix of anger and sadness. Misha’s heart plummets into his stomach at the sight.

“Jensen…” But he can’t think of anything to say that won’t result in his foot going even further down his throat. “Please, I’m so sorry. I’ve been this person for so long and then you came and everything I thought I was is knocked down like a house of cards. I just... I can’t. I can’t risk everything I’ve done for you. I want to be that kind of person, god knows I want to. But I’m not. I’m just scared that, if everything goes to shit, I’ll wind up hating you for it.”

Fucking Christ, why can’t he keep his fucking mouth shut?

Jensen turns back to him at that, his face contorted with rage. “Hating _me_ for it? You do realize that this is a two way street, don’t you? You’re as much to blame for all this as I am.” He shakes his head adding, “No. I’m not going to lose you over this. I won’t. I refuse to let that happen.”

Misha looks away, traces the lines of stitches holding all the fabric of his bedspread together. He can see Jensen out of the corner of his eye, he hasn’t moved and Misha takes that as a good sign, at least he hasn’t stormed out.

 “You deserve so much better than me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jensen says. “When did anyone say anything about deserving?

“I’m not saying that to get compliments or an ego boost or some stupid shit, I’m saying it because it’s true. I really don’t deserve you. I’m choosing my job over you and, given the chance to go back in time and choose again, I’d still choose the job.”

“I don’t want someone better, Misha, I want you.”

“Well, you can’t have me, Jensen.”

Jensen’s eyes dart down to the floor with a sigh, his expression hard to read.

“So what do we do now?”

Misha wishes he’d asked anything besides that. “I don’t know,” he says, angry at how helpless he sounds. He wants to be able to give Jensen an answer, but none are coming to him.

“It would probably be easier for us to stop while we’re ahead.”

“Two seconds ago you said you didn’t want to lose me over this,” Misha responds. “Did your opinion of me change that much that quickly?”

“No,” Jensen says quickly. “No… I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Jensen’s continues to stare at the floor, Misha just stares at Jensen’s hand.

He wants to reach over and hold it. It’s the only way he can think of to tell Jensen how much he loves him, since his words have been spectacularly failing him recently. He wants to somehow convince him of how deeply his affections run through a simple touch, but he’s terrified to move. If he moves so much as a muscle, the spell of silence will be broken. If he tries to touch Jensen, he could wind up being utterly rejected. Jensen will bolt, and Misha doesn’t think he could stand that.

Eventually, the need becomes too much, and he grabs Jensen’s hand. As he expected, Jensen jumps, immediately trying to pull away before he looks down to see that it’s just Misha. He lets the touch continue, and Misha could cry with relief. He opens his mouth, and says something entirely different than what he’d planned.

“You don’t have to stay here, if you don’t want to. I really wish you would, though.”

Jensen’s eyes remain focused on their joined hands for several long moments, then pulls away with a shake of his head.

“No. No, I’m gonna leave. I need some time to think.” He gathers his clothes off the floor and dresses in silence. Misha watches him from the bed, still as a statue, unable to figure out a way to salvage this. When he’s dressed, Jensen spares a look at the alarm clock on Misha’s bedside table. “I’ll see you later, all right?”

“Yeah,” Misha says numbly.

Jensen leans down, gently cups Misha’s jaw, and kisses him.  “I love you,” he says as he pulls away.

Before Misha can respond, Jensen’s gone. The click of the apartment door closing echoes in the silence.

\--

Misha wakes up the next day with a pit in his chest and stomach that only gets bigger as the day wears on. It’s Hawaii all over again. Jensen avoids him, unless it’s absolutely necessary to speak to him, and Misha can’t seem close this gap that’s opened up between them to tell Jensen everything he wants to say.

“I’m going to tell the staff tonight,” he says at one point, when Jensen delivers some messages. “I’d really like you to be there when I do.”

Jensen tenses at the words. “You know I can’t, sir. I’ve got the weekly family phone call tonight.”

“You always call home on Wednesday.”

“Something came up, so we moved it to tonight.”

The blatancy of the lie is like a smack to the face, leaving Misha scrambling to hide his hurt. “Jensen, if you don’t want to be there when I tell them, just say so. It’s fine.”

“I don’t want to be there.”

“Okay.”

It’s noon when Sam knocks on his office door.

“When you said, ‘let’s have lunch,’ I thought you meant we’d be going out to eat,” she says upon seeing the takeout boxes strewn across Misha’s desk.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I got your favorite and talked them into giving us extra fortune cookies,” Misha replies. “I would’ve gotten beer, too, but I don’t think either of us can afford to be drunk in the middle of the day.”

 “So what’s up?” Sam asks. “Does this have anything to do with your post debate meeting with Jim?”

“Yeah,” Misha says. He sighs, trying to psych himself up for what he has to say next. “I should’ve been straight with the whole team, but I wasn’t. For that, and what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry.”

Sam straightens up in her chair. “What is it, Mish?”

“I’ve been sleeping with Jensen.”

A pall of silence falls over the room. Misha can see the change in Sam’s face as what he’s said sinks in.

“What?” The question is quieter than he anticipated, but it still packs the expected punch.

“We’ve been together since August,” he says, trying to answer questions before they’re asked.

“If you weren’t a presidential candidate right now, I’d smack you. I’m your press secretary on this campaign; I need to know about this kind of thing.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

“Damn right you’re sorry. Are you two still together?”

“I don’t know. We had a fight last night. Jensen said he needed some time to think and left. So I don’t know.”

“Gotcha,” Sam says. “Now, let’s start over from the beginning.”

They go through the same gauntlet of questions Jim had asked him the night before, and then go over the fight he’d had with Jensen right up to Jensen leaving. By the time they’re done, the food Misha had gotten has gone both cold and untouched.

Misha scrubs at his face tiredly, more miserable than ever. While he hadn’t been naïve enough to think that Sam would be entirely sympathetic to his cause, he had at least expected her to take the news better than she had. Looking back on how he’d been handling this entire affair, though, he can see why she hadn’t.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he had Jensen at his side to help him. When they’d talked last night - before everything had gone to shit between them - Misha had entertained the idea of them doing this together. He’d imagined that he’d be able to hold Jensen’s hand when they came clean about their relationship to the staff. But Jensen’s not here for this; he left Misha’s apartment angry and hurt, leaving Misha to wonder if he’d ever come back.

“Fuck this, what’s the point?” Misha asks. “I fucked this whole thing up. I shouldn’t have started it in the first place.”

“Hey, look,” Sam says, and Misha can hear the sympathetic overtones he’d optimistically been hoping for from the start. “Yes, you royally fucked up. You should’ve told Jim and me the second you two started something so we could’ve helped, but there’s nothing any of us can do about that now. I have noticed how much happier you’ve looked recently, though. I don’t know when I first noticed it, but you’ve been more driven since August.” She stabs at the food half-heartedly. It’s probably gained sentience by now. “I mean,” she continues, a smirk on her face. “I suppose, now that I know it was from all the sex you were getting, it makes sense.”

Misha snorts, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. There’s a fondness there that lets him know he’s been forgiven for not telling her. Or, at least, as forgiven as he’s likely to get.

“I’m really sorry, Sam.”

“I know.” She reaches across the desk and grabs his hand, giving it a squeeze to reassure him.

“How do you think everyone will react when I tell them?”

Sam thinks for a moment, hand still covering his on the desk between them. “I think, at first, they’ll be shocked and a little hurt that you kept this from them. But they’ll forgive you, because they love you.”

“I don’t even know what to tell them. I don’t even know if Jensen and I are still together.”

“The staff still deserves to know what’s been going on. When are you planning on telling them?”

 “Tonight. Jensen’s not going to be there.”

 “Well Jim and I will be there, so you won’t be alone.”

Misha tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure his smile comes off more like a grimace.

Sam gives his hand another squeeze and starts clearing away their uneaten food. “I’m gonna take this home,” she says, carefully stacking the cartons back in the bag they’d come in. “When you get your appetite back, you just come over, okay? We’ll have those beers you didn’t get.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Sam pauses midway to the door and turns back to look at Misha. “Mish, it’s all going to work out. The staff, you, Jensen, everyone. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, of course I know.”

“Okay,” Sam says, though she doesn’t look convinced. “I love you. In a completely platonic, ‘you’re both a good friend but also my boss’ kind of way.”

Misha manages to actually smile at this, though it’s a small one. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll see you tonight.”

\--

The meeting goes about as well as Misha had expected. Meaning it’s a disaster and a half. If telling Jim and Sam one on one had been hard, telling five people – even if two were already in the know – was on par with how he imagines debating a subject he knows nothing about. Jim and Sam try to help, but there’s very little they can do when all Jared, Ben, and Jeremy want are Misha’s answers and his alone.

For a brief moment, once the deluge of questions has finally stopped, Misha believes Sam’s prediction of everything being all right. Jared’s gone too quiet, though. When Misha tries to catch his eye, he looks away, the tension in his shoulders and drawn line of his mouth puts Misha on edge.

“Jared,” Misha says as Jared gets to his feet so fast his chair crashes to the floor. “Jared, please, I’m sorry.” The office door slams behind him loud enough to make the windows rattle. Misha turns helplessly to the others. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am about all of this.”

“It’s fine,” Ben says.

Jeremy’s already moving to the door saying, “I’ll go see if I can talk to Jared.”

“I’ll come with you,” Jim says, clamoring to his feet.

“No. I should be the one, not you two,” Misha says. “I appreciate the thought, but it should be me.”

Neither look entirely convinced, but Jim nods at him to go.

Jared’s already halfway down the street by the time Misha catches up. He grabs Jared’s arm to try and stop him, but Jared twists out of his grasp and shoves him. Hard. Misha stumbles back, hands rising in a gesture of peace. He’s opening his mouth to say something when Jared’s hands are fisting the lapels of his jacket, forcing him back until he’s being slammed against the wall of the building they’re standing outside of.

“Fuck you, Collins,” Jared growls, still pushing Misha back as though in hope that Misha will become part of the wall if he just presses hard enough. “Fuck you, fuck Jensen, and fuck the campaign.”

He gives Misha another hard shove and then backs off.

“Jared, please,” Misha says. “Please, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. You know I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“I… It’s like you and Genevieve. You said you saw her and you knew. Well, I saw Jensen.”

Jared shakes his head, face that same ugly mix of anger and sadness Jensen’s had had the night before.

“You’ve known me since freshman year of college,” Misha pleads. “You’re one of my best friends. Please, don’t do this. Don’t walk out on this. I’m begging you.”

“I honestly don’t know what I’m more pissed about,” Jared finally says. “I don’t know if I’m mad because you shacked up with Jensen, or if it’s because you didn’t tell me.”

“Out of everyone I know you were the one who I thought would be the most understanding.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint.”

“What do I have to do to convince you to stay?”

Jared stares at the ground, contemplating his options. “You and Jensen broke up?”

“I really can’t tell. He said he needed time to think. If Jensen and I breaking up for good is what it’ll take to get you to stay, I’ll never see him again,” Misha says, though it pains him to even think it. “I just need you on my team. Not just because you’re a fucking genius, but because you’re one of my best friends. I can’t imagine doing this without you. I can’t picture life in the White House without you there, helping me change this country.”

Jared’s fist collides with his jaw before he even finishes his sentence. He knocks over a couple trash cans as he tries to stop his fall to the ground. Then there’s one of Misha’s security detail asking him if he’s okay while two others restrain Jared, who’s not putting up a fight.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Misha reassures, gingerly touching his aching jaw as he straightens up. Jared busted his lip, the fucker. “Fuck’s sake, let him go, I’m fine.”

“Sir, you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, and I said let him go,” Misha replies testily. “It’s just a fight between two friends, nothing to get your panties in a twist about.”

The guards let go of Jared after a second’s hesitation and take a respectful step back. At Misha’s insistence, they retreat to wherever they’d come from in the first place. Misha hadn’t even realized he’d been followed by them, though he realizes it was foolish of him to think he’d been alone. He turns to Jared, who has the decency to look somewhat ashamed that he’d just taken a swing at a presidential candidate.

“Feel better now?” Misha asks, probing his split lip carefully with his tongue.

“I want it on record that I really enjoyed doing that, and only regret it a little,” Jared says.

“Would using me as a human punching bag be enough to convince you to stay?”

“I’m still angry with you. I’m still mad that you kept all this from us, and I’m really fucking pissed about the whole Jensen situation. I don’t want you dumping him on the side of the road when you get elected.”

Wait, I thought you were mad at me because I was having sex with a guy.”

“Misha, I could give two shits that you’re sleeping with a man. I’m pissed that it’s _Jensen_. You two are my best friends and I don’t want to see either of you getting hurt over this.”

“Jared, it’s a bit too late for that.”

“I know.”

\--

The second debate is held in St. Louis at Washington University. Security is tight as a drum around the campus; increasing the closer one gets to the athletic complex where the debate is being held. This hasn’t stopped a rope line from forming outside the building, however, and supporters of both Misha and Lehne wait for them to come out. Security has cleared everyone standing both inside the complex and outside, making sure that it’s perfectly safe for both candidates as they exit the building and greet their supporters.

It’s dark by the time the debate is over. Misha can already tell that he didn’t do nearly as well as he did in the first debate. He chalks it up to town hall debate formats never really being his strong suit and Lehne setting traps for him to wander into throughout the evening. He’s also been constantly distracted by thoughts of Jensen – whom he’s been unable to talk to about their relationship since their fight – and bone tired from another grueling week in the Senate.

Sam is, as usual, standing just offstage so she can lead him around while he’s temporarily blinded by the change from bright stage lights to near darkness. They’re on a tight schedule post-debate. Misha has to get across town to a fundraiser; and then hop on a plane to Virginia to attend another fundraiser and speak at a rally. Misha really just wants to sleep. He doesn’t care where - It’s been a long time since he’s slept on a park bench, but that sounds more appealing than going to a fundraiser after a mediocre debate performance - just so long as he’s left alone for a while.  He reminds himself that there’s a crowd of people outside waiting to see him, so he forces himself to look sociable.

He and Lehne leave the complex together. They may be opponents, but they can still act civil towards each other in public. The noise level that hits them is overwhelming, and Misha can’t help but laugh in surprise at the sound, feeling himself start to blush at the attention. It never ceases to amaze him that there are people who would wait an ungodly number of hours just to catch a glimpse of him. He glances over his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face, to see his staff standing just inside the door next to Lehne’s. Jared gives him two overenthusiastic thumbs up and Misha laughs again before nodding slightly and turning back to the rope line.

“It never gets old, does it?” Lehne asks, voice slightly raised to be heard over the racket.

“I was just thinking that,” Misha replies as they both make their way down the stairs. “Nice going, again, in the debate. You really kicked my ass in there.”

“You’ll come back swinging next time,” Lehne says, “I can already tell.”

They shake hands then go their separate ways. Their supporters have mostly been organized, either by security’s doing or by their own volition, to opposing sides of the walkway to keep the peace. Misha can’t fathom the mess that would’ve occurred if his supporters and Lehne’s had mixed. While Misha and Lehne can be civil to one another, Misha sometimes doubts their supporters would be able to do the same.

He doesn’t know what happens next. One second, he’s walking the rope line -Jensen hovering nearby to prod him along if he gets too caught up talking to someone - and the next, he’s getting shoved to the ground.

He can barely hear the screaming going on around him over the ringing in his ears. His head is pounding from where it cracked against the concrete. He can’t breathe, there’s something large pressing on his chest. Then he realizes it’s Jensen.

“I’m flattered, but there’s a time and a place,” he tries to joke, but laughing hurts when Jensen’s full weight is crushing his chest.

“Shut up.”

He tries vainly to push Jensen off him, the panic in Jensen’s tone scaring him. “Jensen?”

“Stay down,” Jensen commands, trying to cover more of Misha’s body with his own.

“Jensen, you’re bleeding.”

Jensen looks down briefly at the blood on his suit. “Yeah, Mish, that’s you,” he says. “You hit your head on the way down.”

“No, you’re bleeding,” Misha says, he grabs Jensen’s arm and shows Jensen his blood covered hand. “See?” Misha says, “That’s you. You’re bleeding.”

“That’s not me, I’m fine.” When Misha struggles again, he snaps, “Just fucking stay down, will you? There might be another gunman.”

“Shit, is everyone okay?”

“I don’t know, yet. Just stay down until someone gives the all clear.”

Then Clif’s beside them, asking them it they’re okay, and Jensen moves off Misha so Clif can get a better look at him. As Clif crouches to check him for injury, his jacket moves to the side, and Misha blinks in confusion, trying to clear his blurry vision.

“Clif, you’re bleeding,” he says.

“He’s been saying that, I think he’s got a concussion,” Jensen says.

“Do we have the all clear?” Misha asks, pointedly ignoring Jensen’s comment.

“Yes, sir.”

Misha immediately pushes himself into a sitting position. Sweat pops out across his forehead, his vision swims with black spots. He only just manages to keep the vomit down and not pass out, but he sways dangerously and grabs at Jensen’s arm for support.

“Shit! Misha, you were hit,” Jensen says, yanking at Misha’s clothes to try and get a better look.

“Clif’s been shot,” Misha argues.

“No he hasn’t, Clif’s fine,” Jensen says, looking Clif over. “Fuck, I thought I pushed you out of the way in time.”

“Clif, sit down,” Misha commands.

“I’m fine, sir,” Clif responds. “Jensen’s right; you need to lie back down. Help’s on the way.”

Misha pushes Clif’s suit jacket out of the way to reveal the gunshot wound he’d seen in Clif’s chest. Clif’s eyes widen in surprise as he finally crashes to the ground. Jeremy, having seen Clif fall, runs to them, and Jensen tells him to put pressure on Clif’s chest.

Misha looks around, still resisting Jensen’s urgings to lie back down. The entire area seems to be completely devoid of life and overrun with people at the exact same time. He tries to locate Jim, Sam, and everyone else but there are too many people rushing around and Misha’s vision keeps blurring no matter how many times he blinks to clear the fog. He touches his forehead gingerly, remembering how he’d cracked it on the ground, and his hand comes away coated in blood.

“Jensen, let go of me, I’m fine.” But his voice sounds weak to his own ears.

“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding all over the place,” Jensen snaps, trying to push Misha to the ground again but Misha resists.

“I’m fine. Jeremy, what about the others? Is everyone else okay?”

“ _You’re_ not okay,” Jensen cuts in before Jeremy can answer. “Misha, _Misha_ , look at me.”

The world tilts horribly to one side then the other when Misha faces Jensen.

“Baby, you’ve been shot,” Jensen says, enunciating each word slowly, as if Misha were a child.

“ _’Baby’_? Really, Jen?”

“I can’t find an exit wound. The bullet’s still in there somewhere and could cause some serious damage if it moves. I need you to lie down.”

“Jeremy, answer my question. Is everyone all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. As far as I know,” Jeremy says breathlessly from where he’s keeping his hands on Clif’s chest. “Misha, if you’ve been shot, you should really do what Jensen says.”

“What about Lehne? His people? Are they okay?” Misha asks as he bats Jensen’s hands away. “It’s all right, Jensen.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, you’ve been shot,” Jensen persists, cutting off Jeremy’s answer.

“Jensen, if you don’t let Jeremy answer my fucking question I swear to fucking God… Jeremy, what about Lehne?”

“He was further down the walkway when the shooting started. They got him in his car, and they lit out of here like a bat from hell.”

“Satisfied?” Jensen hisses.

Misha’s mind flashes back to their fight and he can’t decide if Jensen looks angrier now than he did. A closer look at his face, even as his eyes try to loose their focus, reveals how much fear is in Jensen’s eyes. He reaches out and gently cradles Jensen’s jaw, thumb caressing Jensen’s cheek.

“Yeah. It’ll be okay.”

He suddenly feels very detached from the world, which scares him. He knows he’s been weaving since he first sat up, and he knows that the only thing keeping him grounded right now is Jensen, whose hands have become vices on Misha’s arms. Misha’s not sure if Jensen realizes how much he’s hurting him with that grasp even as he continues to try and break free of it.

“Jensen, you’re bleeding,” Misha mutters, his words slurring together. Almost the entire upper half of Jensen’s arm is soaked with blood, but so are Jensen’s hands and forearms. Why Jensen doesn’t seem to notice the giant stain marring his arm, he doesn’t know.

The flashing lights of the ambulances arriving at the scene strobe in the darkness, making Misha’s eyes hurt. He didn’t even hear them arrive. Jensen’s calling the paramedics over and Misha’s quickly put on a gurney and wheeled towards one of the ambulances.

“Jim?” Misha calls, searching again for his campaign manager. “Jim?”

“I’m right here,” Jim says, appearing alongside the gurney and grabbing Misha’s hand.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Jensen’s bleeding. I think he got hit, but he won’t listen to me.”

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry,” Jim says. “I can’t go with you in the ambulance, but I’ll be in one of the cars right behind you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Jim gives his hand a quick squeeze and Misha weakly returns the gesture before Jim’s forced to let go as Misha gets loaded into the ambulance. A member of the security team jumps into the back with him, something Misha can’t help but question. Honestly, these guys swore the Hippocratic Oath, right? He doesn’t need a guard.

The last thing Misha sees before the doors close is Jensen faint.

\--

The next few hours pass in a haze of pain and then painkillers. He can remember snippets of conversations, questions being asked and him answering them, but he can’t remember what the questions were, or his answers.

When he wakes up, he’s momentarily disoriented and it takes noticing the IV in his arm and the beeping of a heart monitor for him to remember that he’s in the hospital. Even then, he’s having trouble concentrating on anything, so either the morphine’s messing with him, or the anesthesia is still wearing off.

Somewhere nearby there’s water running. Misha’s head lolls in the direction the noise is coming from just as someone emerges from what can only be the bathroom, smiling broadly when they see Misha’s awake.

“Dad?” Misha asks blearily.

He’s immediately reminded why he hates morphine when he realizes he’s just mistaken Jim for his father. Morphine always makes him far less lucid than he’d like, but Jim doesn’t seem to mind Misha’s drug induced slip up as he moves closer to the bed to ask, “How do you feel?”

“Is Clif okay?” His words come out slurred and almost indecipherable to his own ears. It frustrates him to no end, but Jim understands him just fine.

“He’s still in surgery, but his prognosis is good.”

“What about Jensen? I thought I saw him collapse.”

“He’s fine too. You were right, he was hit, but it was just a bad graze. He fainted from shock more than anything. He’s okay, though. He’s just fine.”

“Sam and the others? What about you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Everyone’s fine, Misha.”

“Lehne’s people? What about bystanders?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Jim says, more firmly this time. “A few people were injured, but the only fatalities were the gunmen themselves. Now, how do you feel?”

“Feel fine. Groggy, though,” Misha says. “What happened?”

Jim pulls up a chair to sit by Misha’s bed.

“There were two of them, one positioned on either side of the walkway. Jensen saw the gun first and knocked you down but you were already hit. You got hit again in your arm on the way down. It was a through and through. We’ve been looking over the security footage, and the bullet went through your arm, grazed Jensen’s and then hit Clif. Jensen’s heroics gave you a mild concussion from the smack your head took, but he saved your life. The docs pulled the bullet out just fine, it didn’t hit anything vital, and you’re expected to make a full recovery.”

“And we’re sure Clif’s going to be okay?”

“The bullet slowed down enough after hitting both you and Jensen that the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as they’d thought it was at first glance. Clif’s injury was the most severe out of everyone that was caught in the crossfire.”

“Where’s Jensen?”

“He wasn’t happy about it, but we sent him back to the hotel to get some rest.”

“He probably thinks I’ll give him a raise for saving my life. Wait, shit, we’re supposed to be in Virginia tomorrow for the… the thing,” he says, waving a hand vaguely through the air.

“It’s all taken care of,” Jim says. “The shooting is all over the news. Sam’s already released a statement about your condition. Mark and the rest of the staff are on a plane to Virginia right now. Mark will speak on your behalf, he’s got your speech notes and the team is going over everything with him. Once they’ve landed, we’re going to have a meeting over Skype to make sure we’re all on the same page. We’ve got it under control, Mish. Your job right now is to rest.”

“I should be in on the Skype conversation. I’m the one running for president; the page we’re all trying to be on is mine.”

Jim’s silent for a long moment. Misha’s about to voice the myriad of reasons he’s thought up when Jim says, “I’ll let you be a part of the meeting _if_ you get some rest between now and then.” He gives Misha a look that clearly states that there’s a ‘but’ coming, and there is. “If you get too worked up, or you start to get tired, I leave. And I’ll take every electronic communication device with me. Got it?”

Misha’s about to protest when his words are cut off by an enormous yawn and he knows whatever fight he was about to start is already lost. Jim gently takes Misha’s hand and gives it a small squeeze.

“Get some sleep now, son. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Misha smiles sleepily. “You called me ‘son’. You haven’t done that in a while.”

“Go to sleep,” Jim repeats.

“You know, there is one silver lining to this whole fiasco.”

“Yeah?”

“They’re already trying to kill me and I’m not even president yet,” Misha says with a smile. “We must be doing something right.”

“Go to sleep, Misha,” Jim repeats, more sternly this time, but there’s a smile playing on his mouth.

Misha lets his eyes drift shut.

\--

When Misha wakes up again, it’s Jensen who’s sitting by his bed. He’s too busy doing a crossword puzzle to notice Misha’s awake, so Misha uses the opportunity to unabashedly stare at him, because he hasn’t gotten a chance to do so for weeks.

Jensen obviously hasn’t gotten the rest he was supposed to, there are dark bags under his eyes, and they look slightly bloodshot. He also hasn’t shaved, and his left arm is in a sling across his chest.  Misha can see the bandages from Jensen’s graze wound sticking out from under his sleeve.

There are only a few answers filled in on Jensen’s crossword, but Misha knows Jensen’s been working on it for a while. Or, at least, he’s been staring at it for a while. Jensen taps the pencil in his hand against his lips in contemplation, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance and not on the puzzle in front of him.

Misha doesn’t want to startle him, though it would be funny. So he moves his hand across the bed and lets it rest near Jensen’s elbow. The rustling of the sheets makes Jensen glance down, and he starts when he sees Misha’s awake.

“Oh God, are you all right? I was so worried about you,” Jensen says.

“Are you okay?” Misha asks, already knowing that he’s going to ask this of every single member of his staff, and probably every single member of Lehne’s staff too.  Hell, he has half a mind to track down everyone who was present at the shooting and ask them as well.

“I’m fine.” He kisses Misha on the temple, a bold move considering the amount of foot traffic outside the door, but Misha can’t resist closing his eyes in bliss at the brief moment of contact. “Do you want some water?” he asks, already moving towards the nearby pitcher.

 Misha smiles and croaks, “God, yes.” The persistent itching of his throat makes him cough; and Jensen’s by his side again in a second, carefully helping Misha sit up.

“Fifty-four down is ‘evil,’ sixty-two across is ‘veni’,” Misha says; nodding at the puzzle Jensen had abandoned upon Misha’s awakening.

“Sorry?”

“Sixty-two across, ‘start of a famous boast’? It’s ‘veni,’ veni vidi vici. Which means that fifty-four down, ‘sinister,’ is ‘evil’ and fifty-five down is ‘Xena’,” Misha explains, taking another sip of water.

Jensen grabs the puzzle, plunks himself back into the chair, and starts to write in the answers, a smirk playing on his lips.

 “Okay, hotshot, what else you got?”

“I’ve given you all the answers I’m able to see from this crappy angle,” Misha says, happily relishing in the return of their usual banter.

Jensen goes quiet, though, and a silence fills the room. Misha looks at Jensen and, though his face is in profile, Misha can tell there’s something pressing on his mind. When he turns to face Misha, his eyes are wet with unshed tears.

“I was really worried about you,” he says softly.

“I know, but I’m fine thanks to you.”

He thought that was the right thing to say, but Jensen’s already forced smile tightens further. When he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a hiccupping sob that he quickly stifles and takes a minute before trying again.

“I was so worried,” Jensen repeats. “You don’t have to say it back, you know. I don’t expect you to, it just kind of slipped out. I’m fine if you want to keep doing whatever it is we’re doing. Just be fuck buddies or whatever. I don’t care. But I do love you, Misha.”

Misha stares at Jensen for a long moment, trying to come up with an adequate response.

“I wish it didn’t take me getting shot for you to talk to me,” he finally says. He knows it’s a shitty thing to say, designed to inflict damage, and make Jensen feel bad, but he’s tired, and does wish Jensen had spoken with him sooner. “You never give me a chance, you know? I want to talk to you, but you just push me away, or you avoid me. You talk about everything else under the sun than what needs to be talked about. I mean, you stormed out of my apartment after telling me you loved me without giving me a chance to say anything in return.”

“What would you have said?”

“What do you think?” Misha asks. He reaches out to Jensen. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Jensen, I’ve just been shot. Twice. I want to kiss my boyfriend, or whatever we are to each other.”

“What if someone sees?”

“I don’t give a fuck. Now come here.”

Misha wraps a hand around Jensen’s neck to pull him in. Jensen’s mouth opens immediately to his, and he allows himself as much time as he wants to simply drink Jensen in. Jensen gently pushes Misha back after several long seconds, breaking the kiss.

“You may not give a fuck right now if someone walked in on us, but I’m pretty sure that’s just the drugs talking,” he says, brushing a stray hair away from Misha’s forehead.

 “I do love you, Jensen. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses Misha just above his eyebrow, and fondly caresses his cheek. “You’ve got about another hour until the meeting. You should get some more sleep before then, or you won’t get to be part of the meeting at all.”

“Will you still be here?”

“Yeah, I’m here until they throw me out.”

\--

Misha’s admittedly a third wheel - or fifth or whatever odd number his presence makes - to the meeting, but he feels infinitely better when he sees that his staff is as uninjured as Jim had claimed. The meeting quickly comes to a close for him after one stifled yawn too many. Jim lets the staff say goodbye to him before he takes the laptop and leaves the room, just like he said he would.

Misha settles back against his pillows while Jensen moves to the chair that Jim just vacated.

“Jared promised to send me a conversation play-by-play in case Jim took the computer,” he says, pulling out his iPhone conspiratorially.

“Knew I hired him for a reason,” Misha mutters sleepily. “Just be careful with how you use that, Jim said he’d take _all_ electronics away if I got tired.”

Jensen smiles and cards his fingers through Misha’s hair fondly. “What I really want is to climb into bed with you,” he confesses after a moment, “but I don’t know if the bed’s big enough for the two of us, and there’s too much of a chance of someone coming in and finding us.”

Misha grumbles in agreement, already starting to doze off under Jensen’s ministrations. The soft purr of Jensen’s phone vibrating startles him, but he’s back to dozing within seconds as Jensen relays the latest update on the meeting.

When Misha wakes up again, it’s the next day and Jim wants to talk to them about travelling back home. Since the doctor’s want Misha to try walking around a bit, they’re going to meet in Clif’s room, which is down the hall from Misha’s. He manages to make it halfway before he’s forced to grab Jensen’s arm for support. Jensen half-heartedly attempts to convince him to take a wheelchair the rest of the way, but Misha just rolls his eyes and readjusts his sweaty grip on the IV stand he’s been pulling alongside him. Jensen sighs in a more melodramatic fashion than Misha thinks is suitable. He tries to go a little ways without Jensen’s assistance again, but has to grab Jensen’s arm again after a few more steps.

The meeting in Clif’s room only takes a few minutes, but Misha gets to see that Clif’s okay with his own eyes. When they get shooed out of Clif’s room so he can get some more rest, Misha manages to walk part of the way back to his room before he has to take Jensen up on the offer of taking a wheelchair the rest of the way. They iron out the details of getting back to D.C. as they go. Misha’s biggest concern is how he can barely keep his eyes open for more than half an hour. Jensen quickly reminds him that he’s still pretty doped up on painkillers and just walked for a considerable period of time after being bed ridden.

Misha’s about to say something when Jensen angrily snaps, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Frederic Lehne is standing inside Misha’s hospital room, apparently waiting for their return.

“Jensen, be nice. It’s fine,” Misha says, trying to mask his own surprise as he puts the brakes on the wheelchair and stands to greet his visitor. “Governor Lehne, sir, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing, Senator,” Lehne says, shaking Misha’s hand.

“I’m doing well. Hopefully getting out of here tomorrow and should be back in D.C. by the afternoon. I never heard if any of your people were injured in the shooting. Are they all okay?”

“They’re all fine, thank you for asking,” Lehne says. “How’s Clif? I’d ask about Jensen, but I can see from here that he’s doing just fine.”

“Clif should be getting out of the hospital and coming back to D.C. in a couple days.”

 “Good, good.  I’m afraid I also came here to talk business with you. Will you still be making the debate next week? Sam wasn’t sure when she gave her press release.”

“Yes, I’ve been ordered to stay put for this week and Sam should be releasing a press statement later today to that affect, but next week I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”

Lehne smiles. “I’d expect nothing less. Well, I just wanted to see for myself that you were doing all right and to say that you, Clif, and Jensen are in the thoughts and prayers of myself and everyone on my staff as you all recover. I’ll let you get back to recuperating and see you at the debate next week.”

“Thank you, Governor,” Misha says. “The same goes for you and yours.”

Lehne says his goodbyes and leaves. Misha sits in dumbfounded silence, trying to decide if there was some ulterior motive behind Lehne’s visit but struggling to uncover one.

“You okay?” Jensen asks.

“I have no idea,” Misha says. “I think that was supposed to be a friendly chat? Don’t go into politics, Jensen. It’ll make you paranoid.”

\--

By the time they make it back to his apartment in D.C., Misha’s exhausted. He’d been okay leaving the hospital and had slept on the plane, but two airports and having to take the stairs due to a broken elevator means he’s leaning heavily on Jensen.

“Let’s get you into a bed,” Jensen says as he shoulders open the door and helps Misha inside.

“Was that a come on, Ackles?”

Jensen laughs, and presses a gentle kiss against Misha’s cheek.

“Depends, do you want it to be a come on?”

“Yes. I should warn you, though, I’ve been injured. So please, be gentle.”

“Let’s just take it slow. Get you out of those clothes first, and maybe give you some Vicodin.”

“Please.”

Jensen readjusts his grip on Misha’s waist, mindful of Misha’s injured side, and helps him to his bedroom. He gets Misha to take his painkillers then helps him take off his socks, shoes, and jeans. Misha finally sinks onto the bed and notices that Jensen’s gone quiet.

“What is it?”

“You really should be wearing your sling.”

Misha had taken it off the second they’d walked through the hospital doors and only has it now because of Jensen’s insistence.

“I hate that thing,” Misha says, moving to take off his shirt. Jensen stops him with a gentle touch.

“Let me,” Jensen says.

“I can take my own shirt off, Jensen.”

Jensen gives him a look and calmly waits out Misha’s latest bout of stubbornness. Misha struggles with the shirt for a few moments before he sighs in resignation and lets Jensen do the job for him. He hisses in pain as the fabric scrapes the gauze covering the wounds on his abdomen and arm, the Vicodin not having kicked in yet.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jensen whispers, cupping Misha’s jaw and peppering his face with kisses to soothe his hurt.

“I’m fine,” Misha says, kissing back briefly. “It just stings is all.”

“You should put your sling on and get some sleep.”

“I don’t like it. It’s too restricting. I wasn’t joking about the come on earlier, you know.”

"Misha, you're exhausted,” Jensen admonishes gently, moving to the dresser and pulling out a pair of pajama bottoms.

"So?"

"So? So, you just got out of the hospital after being shot twice and getting a concussion.” He nudges at Misha’s hips to encourage him to lift them enough so that he can pull the pajama bottoms up.

"I couldn't kiss you while we were in the hospital. I want to kiss you."

Jensen leans over Misha and kisses him.

"There," he says after pulling back, "we kissed. Now get some rest."

"Why don't you want to have sex with me?"

"Because I don't want to have to take you right back to the hospital if you pull your stitches. Besides, I just got you into those pants, don’t want all that work going to waste."

"Well, can you at least lie down with me?" Misha asks.

"Of course.” Jensen says as he strips down to his underwear and climbs into the bed. Misha shifts around uncomfortably. "What's wrong?" Jensen asks.

"I'm not used to you being the big spoon,” Misha says trying to get comfortable. It's really no use; the only way he's going to sleep is if the drugs kick in soon. “I don’t normally sleep on my right side, either.”

"Well you're just gonna have to get used to it until you get your stitches removed.”

“Wow, Jensen, you’re being so helpful right now,” Misha teases.

Jensen scoots closer and wraps his arm around Misha's side, forever mindful of the bandages, his fingers interlacing with Misha's. The bandages on Misha's arm rub against the bandages on Jensen's and Misha imagines the bullet piercing his arm, then grazing Jensen's as it flies towards Clif's chest. He imagines a red line trailing behind its imagined trajectory. He tries to force his mind into thinking about something else, anything else, but he can’t. There’s just the bullet firing and hitting them over and over and over. He doesn’t even realize that he’s working himself into panic until Jensen presses closer. Then he realizes that his heart is racing, he’s starting to sweat and hyperventilate.

"Shhhh, you’re safe now,” Jensen murmurs softly, giving Misha's hand a squeeze.

"I can't stop thinking about the shooting.”

"I know, neither can I.” He presses a kiss behind Misha's ear, another on the corner of his jaw. "Just try to push it out of your mind."

"I've been trying to,” Misha says. "I need a distraction."

"Misha, I really don't feel comfortable with the idea of us having sex right now."

"I know.” He tries to roll over and face Jensen, but he’s got him in a surprisingly tight hold to make sure he can’t.

"It's the left side that you're injured on,” Jensen reminds. “Here, concentrate on this.” He starts rubbing gentle circles into the palm of Misha's hand with his thumb and presses another kiss behind Misha’s ear. He tucks himself as close as he can to Misha - until there's no space between their bodies at all - and gently hums something that sounds like a lullaby.

Misha wonders if it was something his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.

He's asleep before the song’s finished.

\--

When Misha wakes up after his and Jensen’s marathon nap, his apartment feels different. The usual silence feels louder because he knows something’s off but he doesn’t know the cause.

He slowly gets out of bed, absently tugging at the waistband of his pajama bottoms from where they’d slid down his hips in his sleep, and he pads through the living room and into the kitchen, trying to find the source of his growing discomfort but finding nothing out of place. It’s only when he goes into the bathroom for a piss that he gets his answer.

There’s another toothbrush and another razor on his sink by his own. He’s been on the road long enough with Jensen to recognize the guy’s toiletries on sight, but it doesn’t explain why they’re there. Misha restarts his search of the apartment with a better idea of what he’s looking for.

He finds Jensen’s duffle under the bed. The dresser drawer that’s always been empty is now full of Jensen’s clothes and he finds Jensen’s laptop on the coffee table in the living room, having somehow missed its presence the first time around. He’s just gone back into the kitchen to see if there’s anything else of Jensen’s  he missed when the door to his apartment opens and Jensen stumbles through with some bags of groceries.

It probably says something that Misha doesn’t even hesitate to go over and relieve Jensen of some of his burden.

“So you moved in?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, a little breathless. “Sorry, they said someone should look after you for this week and I just thought… Is this okay?”

“I can’t very well throw you out now, can I?” Misha asks. He sighs and adds, “I kinda wish you hadn’t, Jen. Or that you’d asked me first. I don’t want to get used to you being here and all this domestic shit just to have it taken from me. You’re taunting me with something I can’t have.”

“I’m sorry. It was a stupid impulsive decision that I didn’t fully think through. I can get my stuff out of your dresser and I’ll sleep on the couch if that’d make y-“

It’s as far as he gets before Misha’s crushing their mouths together. Misha backs Jensen up against the kitchen counter, drinking in every sound he makes as he licks his mouth open. Jensen’s hands immediately search out Misha’s hips to pull him closer and Misha goes willingly. Their usual rhythm is thrown off by the fact that neither of them are wearing suits and the lack of extra layers they’d normally have to go through to get to skin is maddening.

“I don’t want you on the couch,” Misha says against Jensen’s mouth. “I want you in my bed.”

Jensen whines into the next kiss, thumbs idly tracing the line of Misha’s hipbones where they peek out over the top of his pajama bottoms. In a fit of self indulgence, Misha sticks his hands down the back of Jensen’s jeans to squeeze at his ass and pull him closer, grinning at the sound his action draws out of Jensen’s throat.

“Groceries,” Jensen mutters.

“Fuck ‘em,” Misha replies, as he slowly kisses his way down Jensen’s neck. He sinks to his knees, makes quick work of Jensen’s fly, and pulls both denim and boxers down to expose Jensen’s erection.

“Jesus, shit, Misha,” Jensen hisses above him, fingers instinctively threading through Misha’s hair.

“I don’t… shit, I don’t know how…” Misha confesses. “You gotta talk me through this.”

“Yeah, yeah, shit. Um… fuck. Well put your mouth on it for starters and put your hand at the base ‘cuz you probably can’t take the whole thing. Not on your first time.”

“You saying your dick’s too big for me?” Misha can’t help but ask, even as his own dick gives a twitch in his pants and he moves to do what Jensen says.

“Shit, just suck me off.”

“Then tell me how.”

“You just, fuck, I don’t know. Use your tongue on the bottom and – yeah – you gotta jack me while you suck me. Fuckfuck _fuck_! Watch your teeth.”

Misha almost pulls off to apologize but immediately thinks better of it, wary of losing the rhythm he’s just started to establish. He feels incredibly self-conscious doing this, hyperaware of his own inadequacies at giving out blowjobs though Jensen doesn’t seem to care. In fact, the sloppier Misha is with his tongue and mouth, the more Jensen curses and writhes above him.

He tries to do what he remembers Jensen doing for him in the backseat of the limo and tries to add stuff he remembers past girlfriends had done that had driven him wild. He belatedly remembers to hollow out his cheeks which he figures is blowjob 101. He’s not entirely sure of his success rate, since Jensen seems ecstatic over getting to stick his cock in his mouth in general. In between bouts of cursing, Jensen still manages to hiss orders like, “press your tongue against the sli – ah fuck yes – you’re a fuckin’ natural.”

Jensen’s fingers in his hair provide him with as much instruction as Jensen’s mouth does. They tighten when Misha does something especially pleasurable to egg him on, and loosen when it’s too much to make him back off. They also push his head further down Jensen’s cock until Misha’s not sure if he’s blowing Jensen so much as Jensen’s face fucking him. He knows Jensen’s close, though, and the second he gently scrapes his teeth along the underside of the head, Jensen’s coming, fingers fisting in Misha’s hair, keeping him firmly in place.

He tries to swallow all of Jensen down, but the taste is fucking awful and the second he can break away, he’s coughing and sputtering on the dirty linoleum floor. He really should mop more often.

“Shit, Misha,” Jensen says, automatically moving to help him. He cuts a ridiculous figure, pants and underwear around his ankles, rapidly softening cock glistening with spit and come. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you to pull off.”

“It’s fine,” Misha says. “Fuck, jizz is disgusting.”

“It’s a bit of an acquired taste,” Jensen admits, helping Misha to his feet and leaning in to kiss him deeply, tongue seeking out every corner of Misha’s mouth to help get rid of the taste. Jensen spins them around, tongue still plundering Misha’s mouth, until the marble countertop of the kitchen island is digging into Misha’s lower back.  “Shit, I’m really proud of you for taking as much as you did, though.”

Jensen’s approval of his first blowjob makes Misha light up from the inside out. Jensen slowly dips his hand under the waistband of Misha’s pajama bottoms and gives his cock a firm stroke. Misha’s knees buckle a bit, and he has to brace his arms on the island behind him to make sure he doesn’t fall. Jensen smiles wickedly, trailing kisses along Misha’s jaw and then down his neck. The collar of Misha’s t-shirt leaves his collarbone exposed and Jensen latches onto it, biting and sucking at it to leave a mark.

“I get to do this now,” he says softly against Misha’s skin, “because no one will see this but me. You’re all mine. For a whole week, you’re mine.”

Even now, Misha can tell Jensen’s holding back, making the hickey smaller than he’d probably like. But then Jensen’s mouth returns to his, and the heel of his hand presses hard against the base of his cock, making Misha gasp. Jensen takes his sweet time with him, teasing a symphony of pornographic noises from his lips as his slicks his hand through the precome and gives Misha a hard stroke only to loosen his grip and do several feather light passes. Misha’s been on the edge for too long, though, and it’s an embarrassingly short handjob no matter how much Jensen tries to draw it out. The orgasm punches out of Misha and Jensen’s hand comes away dripping with come.

Misha tentatively takes Jensen by the wrist, brings his hand to his mouth, and experimentally flicks his tongue out to taste some of himself.

“God, if anything, I taste worse than you.”

Jensen chuckles a little at that and makes a show of licking his hand clean of Misha’s come to gross him out.

“Go wash your fucking hands before you come back here and help me with these groceries,” Misha says, pushing Jensen away from him.

Jensen yanks his boxers and jeans back up, smirking at Misha the entire time. He gives him another lingering kiss before he moves off to the bathroom. Misha, still shaking from his orgasm, hears the sink going as he continues to unload groceries. Jensen returns a few minutes later with some clean pajama bottoms and a damp washcloth.

“Hey, that can’t be comfortable, lemme clean you up,” Jensen says softly, planting an open mouthed kiss on the back of Misha’s neck.

Misha groans and turns so Jensen can pull his come stained pajama bottoms down and mop up the mess. Misha’s eyes flutter shut, shuddering when the warm water evaporates on his skin as the washcloth travels further south to clean the insides of his thighs.

Jensen kisses Misha on the cheek, smiling against his skin as he withdraws the washcloth and drops it in the empty kitchen sink behind them. “Maybe I’ll suck you off after dinner,” Jensen whispers, kissing along Misha’s jaw to encourage him to step out of his pajama bottoms and into the fresh ones. “I better not get used to this,” Misha hums as Jensen pulls away again to gather up the discarded clothing and washcloth. Jensen just smiles at him and pushes the bottle of Vicodin and a bottle of water towards him.

“Every six hours,” Jensen reminds him. “Take one while I go put this stuff in the laundry.”

Misha manages to steal one last kiss before Jensen disappears back into the apartment. With Jensen no longer there to distract him, and his post-orgasm high having finally tapered off, he finally becomes aware of how badly he aches. He downs the correct dosage of painkillers and the entire bottle of water as well. He’s wandered into the living room and settled on the couch to watch the news when Jensen emerges from putting the clothes in the washing machine. He presses a fond kiss to Misha’s forehead before he goes to cook dinner, giving him strict orders that he can watch the news and election coverage as long as he doesn’t get himself worked up.

Misha manages to last all of ten minutes before Jensen’s back and confiscating the remote after changing the channel to a _Star Trek_ marathon.

“If I catch you on the news websites,” Jensen threatens with a pointed glance at their laptops sitting side by side on the coffee table, “you are in such deep shit.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Misha says with a mock salute.

He must doze off at some point because Picard and the Tamarian captain are overcoming their language barrier once second and then Picard’s practicing the flute while Jensen nudges him awake.

Jensen sits beside him, their shoulders bumping against each other as he hands Misha a bowl of chili. Misha smiles and leans against Jensen’s shoulder, still drowsy from his unintended nap. Jensen presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, putting an arm around his shoulders at the same time to bring their bodies closer together.

“You need to eat, Mish. You’ve been travelling and sleeping all day, I don’t think an empty stomach is recommended when taking painkillers.”

Misha grumbles but sits up a little straighter to better eat the food Jensen’s made.

“I passed out for a while there, huh?” he asks between bites. It’s good chili, but he doesn’t think he should be surprised by this. Jensen’s from Texas, after all, and he’s pretty sure Texans don’t get to say they’re from Texas unless they can grill the perfect steak and make a fantastic bowl of chili.

“Yeah,” Jensen replies. “Damn, that was one of my favorite episodes, too.”

Jensen huffs out a laugh and playfully bumps Misha’s shoulder. “You are such a dork.”

He leans over and kisses Misha. Misha smiles and hums contentedly. “You love it,” he says kissing Jensen in return.

“I do,” Jensen agrees. “Now finish your food.”

The second they’re done eating, Jensen maneuvers them so that he’s stretched out across the couch with Misha’s back pressed against his chest. Misha drifts in and out of sleep again as the episode continues with Jensen kissing him awake again to ask about some plot point he’d missed while in the kitchen. His arms tighten around him as the episode reaches its conclusion and Misha cranes his neck around to try to get a look at Jensen’s face.

“If I’m a dork, then you’re a total sap,” he says.

“Shut up,” Jensen replies, pressing a kiss against Misha’s temple, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Misha reaches up and puts his hand on Jensen’s cheek, guiding him back down into another kiss. The angle’s all bad and it strains his neck but Jensen gets with the picture enough for Misha to adjust their position so they can kiss properly. Despite Jensen’s careful, insistent reminders about his injuries, they fall into a languid make out session, Jensen’s hands snake up under Misha’s shirt so he can let his fingers slide along Misha’s sides slowly turns into a quest for friction. Misha gasps softly when Jensen’s hands slide down to his hips and he gets pulled into a grind.

“Shit,” he whispers against Jensen’s lips before sealing their mouths together and groaning around Jensen’s tongue, “I can’t get used to this.”

“It’s just for a week,” Jensen murmurs.

Misha blindly grabs for the remote and mashes the power button to turn the television off. He fully intends to take advantage of having complete and uninterrupted access to Jensen while he can, burying the persistent reminder that this cannot and will not last. Not if he gets elected. And Election Day is looming over their heads like a giant storm cloud.

Jensen must sense something of his thoughts because his kisses slow to a stop and he gives Misha a concerned look.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Misha says, though he knows the lie is obvious on his face. He tries to deflect with a joke, “I just started thinking about the crew of the _Enterprise_ watching us and critiquing our performance. Major turn off.”

Jensen looks unconvinced and Misha can’t blame him - that was a terrible cover. Jensen’s hands trail back up his sides and he shivers, eyes fluttering shut when Jensen’s fingers trace along the tape holding the gauze over his stitches in place. He forces his eyes open to look down at Jensen when a hand comes to rest on his cheek.

“It’ll be okay, Misha,” he says. His earnestness flash fires Misha’s melancholy into irritation. He turns his face to press a quick kiss into Jensen’s palm before he pushes off him and gets up.

“I wish you’d stop saying that because everything’s _not_ going to be okay.” He tries to keep as much venom out of his words as he can because he’s not actually angry at Jensen but he knows some of it seeps in anyway. “I’ve… I’ve got some work to do and I need to take a shower because I can still smell that fucking hospital on me.”

“Just the other day you accused me of pushing you away and avoiding you when we needed to talk,” Jensen says. “Now you’re doing the exact same thing.”

“You wanna talk?” Misha asks, surprising himself with how angry he’s gotten in the span of a couple seconds. “Fine, let’s talk. Let’s talk about how you kissed me in the first place. Okay? Let’s talk about how you’ve gotten so far under my skin that I can’t function without you anymore, professionally or personally. Let’s talk about how much I want you with every fiber of my being but I can’t have you without the rest of my life crumbling around me. Don’t tell me that it’s all going to be okay, Jensen, stop talking to me like the whole world’s going to change for us because that’s not going to happen.”

Jensen sits quietly on the couch, resolutely staring at the floor and Misha remembers how he’d done the same thing during their last argument. Misha immediately opens his mouth to apologize, take back everything he just said, and get back to getting each other off on the couch.  Jensen just sighs and waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go take your shower. I’ll help you change your bandages when you’re done. The doctors still want someone to be here with you tonight, just in case, but I’ll sleep on the couch and, in the morning, I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll get my shit out of your dresser and everything like I said I would. You were right, it was completely out of line for me to do that and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Misha says, but the words come out at a hoarse whisper and clearing his throat to try again doesn’t put the right amount of force behind the words. He finally gives up and beats a hasty retreat into the bathroom, immediately locking the door behind him and stripping.

It takes him a couple seconds to unravel the bandage around his arm and tear off the dressing underneath, revealing the stark black line of his sutures. Another second, he’s peeled off the coverings on his stomach as well. It takes a little contortion to get the dressing on his back from where the surgeons had cut into him to retrieve the bullet from where it had lodged, but he manages it.

He barely looks at himself in the mirror, already knowing that his hair’s a mess, he needs a shave, and parts of him are only being held together with black thread. He ignores the bruise Jensen sucked into his skin that he can just see out of the corner of his eye as he brushes his teeth to banish the taste of Jensen’s cooking as best he can. It’s only after he’s standing under the scalding hot spray of water that he remembers the dressings covering the gash on his head. He tears at that one as well, his fingernails accidently scraping the wound underneath. He just bites back the sound of pain that almost burst from his mouth, managing a much quieter “ouch” instead. He flings the sodden fabric over the curtain rod, in the general direction of the sink and hears it splat satisfactorily on the ground, probably several feet from where he’d intended it to land.

He starts to scrub at his skin, desperate to rid himself of the smell of the hospital, the airplane, the airports and, most especially, Jensen. He has to constantly remind himself to be careful of his stitches, how pissed Jensen would be with him if he accidently hurt himself and pulls his stitches. Thinking of Jensen makes his stomach churn and he sits down to wait for the nausea to pass. .

The floor of the shower’s a good place to be, Misha decides. He was getting tired of standing anyway. He washes his hair from here, cursing under his breath each time his fingers brush the stitches on his forehead. He can’t bring himself to get out of the shower once he’s done, though, too consumed with his own thoughts to properly motivate himself into leaving. It’s only once the water’s gone cold and he’s still sitting there that he hears the knock on the bathroom door.

“Misha? You’ve been in there for a while, you okay?”

“I’m fine, Jensen,” Misha calls, wincing slightly as the sound of his voice makes his head ache. “I got tired and sat down.”

“Do you need me to come in?”

Misha laughs, the sound bitter in his ears. “I locked the door. I’m fine, Jensen. Really. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay,” Jensen replies, not sounding too sure.

Misha turns off the water to prove his point. It takes him a second to find his feet again and he has to keep a hand on the shower wall to steady himself, switching his grip to the towel bar as he carefully steps out. He dries himself off as best he can - still mindful of his stitches - then lets Jensen in before going to sit on the toilet lid. Jensen grabs the hand towel by the sink to dry Misha’s hair for him after he confesses that he’s too much of a klutz to be trusted around stitches holding his head together.

It’s only when Jensen’s affixing the clean dressing to his back that he finally gets the courage to say, “So we’re done?”

Jensen goes still for a second. “Yeah, Mish, we’re done.”

“Okay. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“Should I hand Jim my two weeks notice?”

“Can you wait on that for a little while longer? I don’t have the time to train a new person right now. I’d really appreciate it if you could hang around at least until we get the results.”

“And if you’re elected?”

“Then I leave it up to you,” Misha says. “Working with you would be, awkward, admittedly, but I’d be willing to give it a try if you would be too. If that’s not what you want, then if you could stick around long enough to train the new person yourself…”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, “I can do that.”

“So you’ll make your decision by Election Day,” Misha says firmly, feeling a desperate need to set them both deadlines.

“Yeah,” Jensen agrees. “And, if I leave, the new person will take over for good on your inauguration day.” He presses a soft kiss against Misha’s shoulder blade then rests his head against his shoulder for a second, his hair tickling Misha’s neck. “I need you to turn around, so I can get the rest.”

They lapse into silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts until Jensen has to break it to tell Misha to stand so he can properly bandage his stomach and help him back into his clothes. Once Jensen’s done and cleaning up the mess of medical supplies, Misha goes back into the living room to grab his laptop and charger from the coffee table and move his operation into the bedroom.

Jensen had changed the sheets while Misha was in the shower. He doesn’t have to look in the dresser drawer to know Jensen had already vacated his things from it as promised. Misha gets started on replying to all the emails his friends and family had sent him since the shooting when Jensen appears in the doorway.

“Thought you had an automated away message set up.”

“I do, for my work account,” Misha replies, briefly glancing up from the email he’s writing. “This is my personal email, I think about five people have this address.”

“And I never got it?” Jensen asks, pretending to be hurt at having been left out. “What would you do? If you left, I mean.”

“I was thinking about going to Georgetown, finally getting my law degree. I was thinking about trying to work for you and take classes part time, but I don’t know if that plan’s viable anymore.”

“You ever think about Yale?”

“I don’t think I’m Yale material.”

“I think you are,” Misha says. “You’re incredibly smart. You have a fantastic work ethic… If you’re worried about tuition, there are numerous scholarship opportunities. Sam went to Yale, she’d help you out if you asked and Jim would, too. I think he knows a couple of bigwigs up there. I mean, unless you’re saying you don’t want to go to an Ivy League school. Because Stanford’s one of the high rankers and so is Chicago and NY U. They tend to be in the top five, ranking wise. And… and I’m babbling,” he says with an embarrassed laugh. “We’ll help, basically, is what I’m saying. The staff and I can help you find a school that’ll fit you and help you find ways to afford it if money’s an issue.”

Jensen smiles from the doorway, a blush creeping up his neck as he ducks his head slightly.

“I appreciate that, Misha. Thank you.  I noticed you didn’t mention Harvard, though. You not like it there?”

“I liked it well enough. We weren’t the best fit for each other, but we made it work.”

“Why’d you go, if you weren’t really happy there?”

“I’d planned on just sticking around at Chicago - where I’d done my undergrad - but then my dad got sick and Harvard became my only choice.”

“Right,” Jensen says, sensing the need to end the conversation which has taken an awkward turn.

“It’s fine, Jen,” Misha says, trying to make some of the tension dissipate.

“Well, I’ll be back to check on you in a couple hours.”

“Okay. Goodnight Jensen.”

“Yeah, g’night.”

\--

Jensen gently shakes him awake the next morning, just as he’d done every few hours during the night.

“I made you some breakfast and there’s some tea steeping right now. I have to go into the office to take care of some things but I’ll be back later to check on you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Misha sighs, still waking up. “Thanks.”

 “I’m sorry about everything that went down last night.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

Jensen leans over and softly kisses him before immediately realizing what a shit move that was and recoiling. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Jensen, it’s fine,” Misha hurriedly assures him. “It’s fine.”

Misha reaches up and pulls Jensen back down to kiss him again.

“Fuck,” Jensen whines. “I’m still in love with you.”

“I’m still in love with you, too. It’s just something we’re gonna have to deal with.”

“Right. Well, I need to go and you need to get out of bed.”

Jensen’s pulling on his coat when Misha emerges from the bedroom and shuffles into the kitchen. He’s taking his Vicodin when Jensen comes in, slinging his satchel across his chest.

“I want you avoiding the news and just… anything work related while I’m gone, okay? You’re supposed to be resting and hands off this week.”

“Yes, mom.”

Jensen smiles a little then leans in for an all too brief kiss.

“I should really stop doing that,” he murmurs.

 “We have a week to stop,” Misha says. Jensen smiles again and leaves after issuing a final reminder to rest or suffer the consequences.

Misha putters around the apartment, starting about a dozen different projects to keep himself occupied only to give up on them about halfway through, too antsy to really focus on anything. He hates being sidelined like this. He’s used to having the news on as background noise, but he’d promised Jensen he’d try to avoid it.

He’s paging through a book he’d picked up and then set aside somewhere along the campaign trail and trying to figure out where he’d left off when Jensen returns.

 “Jensen, you gotta let me do some work, I’m already going nuts,” Misha pleads the second Jensen’s through the door.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Jensen says with a laugh. I do, in fact, have some paperwork for you to go over for the Senate and, when the staff gets back, we’re gonna start prepping for the next debate. I got a phone call from Jim while I was out saying he and Clif have made it back in one piece and Jim should be on the road to pick up the staff and Mark in Richmond as we speak. But you’re still supposed to go slow and rest more than work, you got that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Misha says, just grateful to finally have a task in front of him.

\--

The preparation for the third debate is absolutely grueling. Debate camps are held daily in Misha’s apartment, and Misha constantly pushes himself to do better until their mock debates turn into real ones over Misha’s health. He loses these fights every time and is forced to comply with the staff’s demands that he get some rest or turn into a health risk.

Their late nights and mock debates pay off in Denver, though. The general consensus from the media is that Misha is the winner of this final round, and many reporters are impressed with Misha’s comeback post-shooting. His polling numbers had practically gone through the roof after the incident, and the fact that he refuses to use the shooting as leverage to gain sympathy earns him some respect from the pundits that typically bash him. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that Lehne could still easily win this, the swing states are still anyone’s guess and Misha’s sick of pandering to the Ohio voters.

“Look, just because every candidate Ohio has gone for has become president since 1960 doesn’t mean that you need Ohio to win,” Misha had snarled one night when Ben had brought up how his latest answer wouldn’t go over well with Ohio voters. “I hate how, in every election, everyone acts like Ohio is the only state that matters. It’s ridiculous and I’m not gonna do it. If I lose the election because I lost Ohio, then that’s on me.”

It should be an exciting night with another debate victory under their belts, but everyone’s too exhausted to fully enjoy it while they board the plane back to D.C. There’s a unanimous agreement to rest on their laurels for tonight and strategize tomorrow after everyone’s gotten some rest. The cabin is soon filled with the sound of snoring, with only Sam and Ben staying awake to work on a press release.

Though he tries to fall asleep, Misha’s awake, too. His head pillowed on Jensen’s shoulder, with Jensen’s arm around him protectively. He’s easily more tired than anyone else on the plane, but - with this final debate over with - there are only two more weeks between him and Election Night and Jensen’s decision. The thought makes him shift closer to Jensen, desperate to savor each remaining second they have together.

It’s a long ride back to D.C.

\--

The final two weeks are a complete blur for Misha. Any time he’s not campaigning, he’s trying to finish his work in the Senate. He’s determined that - even if he can’t get everything passed that he wants to pass - he can at least lay some solid groundwork for the person taking his place. He works himself ragged in his attempt to get everything done and it feels like he wakes up each morning more exhausted than he was when he went to bed the night before.

The added emotional weight of Jensen’s decision certainly doesn’t help, either. They’d agreed on a complete ‘no touching’ policy after their plane ride back to D.C. and, to Misha’s surprise, it’s not nearly as awkward to work around Jensen as he’d previously imagined. It’s business as usual between them. Jensen still goes above and beyond the call of duty, and continues to be the best assistant Misha’s ever had, even without the sex. They do still have their moments, little pockets of time together where they might have shared a brief kiss or affectionate touch, but now they apologize to each other for an accidental brush of fingers. Jensen’s taken to wiping his hand on his pant leg when this happens, which hurts Misha more than not being able to touch him in the first place.

November sixth arrives far sooner than Misha thought it would and everyone’s in Boston for Election Day awaiting the results. Sitting around in campaign headquarters as the results pour in from around the country sends Misha’s mind reeling back to eight months ago, sitting in the same office front they’re in now and seeing Jensen’s face for the first time. Everything’s coming full circle, it seems, and the dark cloud over his head only darkens as the day progresses. Even McNiven’s victory in claiming the Senate seat Misha’s vacating doesn’t lift his spirits much, though he takes care to hide his sour mood when he makes a surprise visit to her victory rally to congratulate her in person.

Misha snaps his attention back to the madness that campaign headquarters has turned into.  Televisions tuned to different new stations for maximum result coverage, phones ringing off the hook, and people running amok, yelling about one thing or another while others quietly crunch the most recent numbers. Amid the chaos, Jared sets up a white board with a map of the US drawn on it. When a state is officially called, someone colors it in red or blue, depending on the candidate and the projected electoral votes – listed off to the sides -are changed accordingly.

Indiana, New Hampshire, and Virginia are the first states called for Misha with Lehne starting to conquer the south with wins in Kentucky, South Carolina, and Georgia. The win in Indiana is a pleasant surprise, since it was Misha’s biggest failure during the primaries, but it doesn’t change the fact that Lehne already has a three point lead on them. Things only worsen when Lehne gets West Virginia and Ohio. While Misha had asserted his indifference to losing Ohio, the loss is still a blow to morale.

Now lagging thirteen points behind, they’re forced to wait until the polls in the northeast and the south are closed and counted. They amass small wins at first, with Delaware, D.C., Vermont, and Maine. Then the big states start coming in. By nine o’clock, Misha has the entire northeast except for New York and Rhode Island where the polls haven’t been closed yet. He wins Tennessee and Lehne’s wins in Alabama, Mississippi, Missouri, and Oklahoma don’t bring him anywhere near Misha's numbers, not even after he wins Arkansas.

Misha tears his eyes from the news reports to take in the white board map as Ben triumphantly goes over to it, carefully colors in all their new states, and changes Misha’s electoral count. As it stands, Misha has fourteen states and 132 projected electoral votes out of the 270 needed to win the election. Lehne, on the other hand, has only ten states and 95 electoral votes. When Misha’s lead rapidly shrinks with Lehne’s win in Texas, Jared and Jensen apologize to him.

Misha takes Illinois, Michigan, and Rhode Island along with three other states but reports start flooding in that Lehne’s won New York. The loss, though somewhat expected – it is, after all, Lehne’s home state – is still a surprise.

“Would’ve been a nice ‘screw you’ to have taken Lehne’s state from him,” Jim says. Misha only hums in agreement as reporters continue to speculate about Florida, whose numbers are still being tallied.

Lehne gets seven more states and a collective groan goes up when Jeremy quietly changes Lehne’s ‘207’ to ‘217’ when he gets Wyoming. Misha sighs at the twenty point difference between them. The numbers just get worse when Montana, Nevada, and Utah are called for Lehne and Misha’s now twenty-six points behind him. He glances back at the map, taking in the uncolored states of California, Alaska, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Florida. If Lehne gets Florida, they’re done for.

“What’s taking Florida so long?” Sam asks, glaring at the televisions as though they’re responsible.

“Sam, do you not remember the Bush Gore race of 2000?” Mark replies from where he’s perched on a chair. Misha smacks him on the arm, in a playful gesture. Mark swats back, which earns them a stern “boys,” from Jim who nods at the televisions.

“They think they can call California.”

“Can we just go ahead and color it in?” Jared pipes up from where he’s already toying with the marker. “I mean, we know we got it even though we haven’t officially gotten it.”

“They just made it official,” Alona says from her position manning some of the phones.

“Are you serious?” Misha asks as all the reporters start confirming the results on screen.

Mark lets out a loud cheer which is quickly picked up by everyone else in the room.

“Fucking California! Thank you, Mark Pellegrino!” Misha yells, going to hug Mark as Jared changes Misha’s ‘204’ to ‘259’.

“You would’ve gotten them without me.”

“Maybe, but your presence sure fucking helped,” Misha says, beaming.

“Lehne gets Florida, we’re still pretty well fucked,” Mark says, suddenly all business.

“Yeah, but let’s enjoy the moment for a second. _Fifty-five_ electoral votes. California just put us back in the game.”

When Washington’s eleven electoral votes go to Misha, the room erupts. The cheers and applause are so loud that it’s impossible to hear the reporters. Jared crosses out Misha’s last electoral count and writes the ‘270’ as big as he can, circling and underlining the number multiple times for emphasis then adding arrows and exclamation marks as well. With this win, Misha has become the next president of the United States.

“Calm down, everyone,” Jim yells over the rest of the noise. “Four states haven’t been called yet. There’s still a chance Lehne could win this thing.”

The room quickly goes silent again and the tension in the room impossibly increases when the reporters start getting the final counts from Florida. When Florida is finally called and sends Misha’s victory over the edge, it sounds like an explosion just happened in the cramped space. There’s absolutely no way Lehne could pull out a victory now.

Misha wades through the crowd of people, congratulating and getting congratulated, until he reaches Jensen. Jensen holds out his hand, but Misha breaks their ‘no touching’ policy to cup Jensen’s cheek. Jensen tenses immediately, probably convinced that Misha’s going to kiss him. Misha shakes his head slightly, lets his hand slide around to grip the back of Jensen’s neck, and pulls him into an embrace.

“Thank you,” he whispers into Jensen’s ear. “Whatever you choose to do, thank you.”

Jensen doesn’t say anything, but he does hug Misha back as they’re buffeted by their fellow celebrators.

“I should probably say something to everyone, huh?” Misha asks Jim, whose eyes look suspiciously red and wet than normal.

“Probably,” Jim says, his voice thick. “Your dad would be proud, Mish.”

“Fuck, Jim… out of everyone, I need to thank you the most. I literally wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. So thank you,” Misha says.

Jim smiles and pulls him into a hug that crushes all the air out of Misha’s lungs.

The next hour doesn’t feel real. Misha still hasn’t wrapped his head around the fact that it’s actually happened, that he’ll be the president and running the country in a couple months time. Lehne calls to congratulate him as they’re leaving for the park not far from Misha’s childhood home where he’ll deliver his victory speech to the mob of people already assembling. Lehne’s concession speech is televised later, when they’re back at campaign headquarters and partying long into the night. The televisions are left on, providing an interesting soundtrack of ongoing election coverage and showing the street parties that have broken out all over the world in celebration of Misha’s victory. Misha can feel Jensen’s eyes on him the entire time they’re celebrating. It reminds him uncomfortably of Hawaii.

As the party slowly winds down, Jensen finally approaches him and lets his fingers gently brush against Misha’s wrist.

“Come back with me to the hotel, right now.” He doesn’t sound drunk, and Misha hasn’t had enough to even work up a good buzz so he gives Jensen an inquisitive look, wondering where this request has come from. Jensen leans in and, with his best poker face on, says, “I really, _really_ need you to fuck me, sir.”

Which is all Misha needs to hear. Misha nods, makes his goodbyes and offers his final congratulations to everyone still present before climbing into the car and letting Clif take them back to the hotel. Misha spends the ride dealing with the constant hum of anxiety that’s taken hold in his gut as Jensen stares out the window, what feels like a mile long chasm of personal space between them. Misha contemplates breaking the awkward silence that’s cropped up between them but each effort dies in his throat.

Jensen doesn’t touch him until they’re in the hallway leading towards Misha’s room and, even then, it’s just the barest brush on fingers. The second that the door to Misha’s room clicks shut, Jensen turns into an entirely different animal. He presses Misha up against the door, insistently pushing a thigh between Misha’s and pressing his growing erection against Misha’s hip. Misha can’t stop the gasp that happens when Jensen reaches between them and starts palming at his groin. Jensen leans in and seals his mouth over Misha’s, already licking his way into Misha’s mouth as Misha finally starts to get with the program. He presses into Jensen’s hand, grabbing at Jensen’s suit jacket to try and get it off him, and a needy whine works its way out of his throat.

“What’s it gonna be, Jen?” Misha asks between their frantic kisses. “Are we just gonna rut against each other like the first time? Handjobs? Am I gonna blow you or are you gonna blow me?”

 “I said I wanted you to fuck me and that’s what’s gonna happen. Either you’re gonna fuck me or I’m gonna ride you but, either way, your come is gonna be leaking out of my ass by tomorrow morning.”

“ _Jesus_ , Jen,” Misha breathes, hips bucking in a desperate bid for friction. “I didn’t know you could be that filthy.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Jensen says, and there’s a promise in his tone that goes straight to Misha’s groin as Jensen captures his mouth in a scorching kiss.

“ _Fuck_.”

“That’s the idea.”

They stumble to the bed, shedding clothes as they go. Jensen fishes out a bottle of lube from his pocket before he lets his pants fall to the floor. When the backs of Misha’s knees connect with the mattress, he falls backwards onto the bed, pulling Jensen down with him. Misha doesn’t even hear the cap pop on the bottle of lube, but then Jensen’s lube slicked hand is around him, giving him a firm stroke and slicking him up. He groans, reflexively thrusting into Jensen’s fist as Jensen just smiles, removes his hand – the fucking tease – and reaches back to open himself up.

Watching Jensen finger himself has to be one of the hottest things Misha’s ever seen. Head bowed, knees on either side of Misha’s waist, unoccupied arm trembling from the strain of holding him up while his other hand twists and contorts to try and find the right angle. Misha can tell when Jensen stops teasing himself and pushes into himself because he hisses at the burn of the stretch. Misha quickly touches Jensen’s shaking arm to provide some kind of anchor, caressing the scar on Jensen’s arm from the shooting.

Jensen lifts his head, smiling at him as he rocks his hips back onto his fingers and groaning when he adds another finger. His head drops to Misha’s shoulder, panting breaths ghosting across Misha’s chest. The sight makes Misha wonder what it would feel like to be the one working Jensen open, or the two of them working on him together.

He’s about to open his mouth, about to ask Jensen to show him how to work him loose, when there’s a sharp little “ _ah_ ” followed by the wet sound of Jensen’s fingers pulling out, apparently satisfied with his work. The brief fluttering of disappointment in his chest is quickly chased away when Jensen smiles at him again, and presses an open mouthed kiss on his jaw.

“Let me…” Jensen trails off before he can finish whatever he was about to say.

“Yeah,” Misha gasps, nodding frantically.

Jensen sits back on his heels, reaches behind him again, and gives Misha’s cock a few firm strokes before lifting himself on trembling thighs to sink down on Misha’s cock. He eases down slowly, in short jerky thrusts, making all these desperate little noises that make him sound like he’s going to fucking die because Misha’s not completely inside him.

Misha thinks he might die with him. Jensen’s so hot and tight around him he can’t stand it. He has to force himself not to thrust upwards, has to let Jensen have complete control of the situation. So he fists the sheets beneath him in a white knuckled grip instead and lets Jensen continue sinking down onto him inch by careful inch, convinced that if the heat around him doesn’t drive him insane, the pressure will.

And fuck, _fuck_ , Misha was so wrong, so fucking wrong. _This_ is the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Jensen, rocking back onto his heels, a hand splayed on Misha’s hip, another on Misha’s thigh for balance, eyes closed, head back, exposing the line of his throat, erection practically flat against his stomach dripping with precome, with Misha’s cock buried in him to the hilt.

“Jesus, Jensen,” Misha sighs, “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

Jensen cracks an eye open and smiles dazedly down at him. He clenches around Misha then slowly rolls his hips like he’s giving Misha a test drive.

“ _Misha_ ,” he breathes, head rolling forward until his chin is resting on his chest.

He rolls his hips again, grinding down even harder on Misha’s cock, making them both groan. Jensen starts setting a torturously slow pace that drives Misha wild. Misha wants to wait until Jensen tells him that it’s okay to move because he doesn’t know if it is, but it’s hard not to just take and take and take everything Jensen’s willing to give him.

“Jensen,” he finally begs. “Jen, please.”

“Fuck, Mish. Move. Fucking move.”

Misha thrusts into Jensen, relishing the sound Jensen makes when he does. They fall into a rhythm, and for a good minute the only sounds are the harsh slap of Jensen’s ass against Misha’s thighs and the throaty noises both of them make as they fuck. Misha reaches out to cup Jensen’s cheek and Jensen’s heavy gaze lands on him through a fan of lashes. He turns his face into Misha’s hand, his lips brushing along the palm then closing around his thumb, gives it a hard suck, tongue laving over every inch of it, before letting it go. Misha uses it to trace the line of Jensen’s cheekbone, leaving a cool trail of saliva in its wake.

He can’t stop feeling like there’s still that mile wide chasm between them even while they fuck, though. He hates the feeling and quickly drags Jensen down to kiss him, breathe in his gasps and pants before rolling them so Jensen’s on his back, a wicked smile spreading across his face. Pleased that he managed to move them into this new position without having to pull out, though at the cost of their established rhythm. Jensen whines as he wraps his legs around Misha’s waist and they fall back into their pace.

“Misha,” Jensen breathes against Misha’s neck, “need you to touch me.”

It takes him a second to remember that they have all the time in the world right now. He can get Jensen off as slowly as he damn well pleases. Misha’s hand travels south until he finds Jensen’s cock and he gives it a hard squeeze before turning his grip feather light and slowly stroking it from base to tip. Jensen writhes beneath him, and he thrusts back against Misha’s cock especially hard in retaliation. He reaches around to cover Misha’s hand with his own and forces him to tighten his grip.

“Harder, Misha,” he growls.

Misha smiles at him teasingly and shakes his head no, slowing his thrusts to a languid pace as well. Jensen makes frustrated sound which morphs into a pitiful mewl when Misha leans in to bite and suck a mark onto Jensen’s throat.  He tangles his fingers in the sweaty curls at the base of Misha’s skull, drags him in for a kiss, teeth biting down hard on Misha’s bottom lip, making him cry out sharply.

“I wanna feel it,” Jensen says between gasping breaths. “C’mon, just this once. I need you to _fuck me_.”

Misha can’t focus on the words, too busy staring at how Jensen’s mouth hangs open, all those fucking desperate noises escaping his throat as he fucks himself back onto Misha. He swallows after a moment and gives in to Jensen’s wishes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in and drawing vaguely inhuman noises from the both of them. He pushes in even deeper on the next thrust and Jensen gasps like he’s just seen the face of god.

The sight is enough to drive Misha wild and Jensen eggs him on to pound into him harder than he thinks he should. “I’m not gonna break,” he grunts. “I pr- shit, right there.”

All Misha has to do to get Jensen to come is twist his hand on the upswing, running his thumb over the head. Then Jensen’s seizing up, a sharp cry punching out of his gut as his head snaps back, tendons in his neck standing out as he gasps for air and spills all over Misha’s hand and making a mess of their stomachs and chests. He clenches beautifully around Misha, who continues to fuck him through his orgasm slamming against his prostate just to hear him whimper as he slowly eases down from his high. One of Jensen’s sweaty hands comes up to rest shakily on Misha’s arm in a parody of Misha’s anchoring him earlier.

“Fucking cowboy,” Misha says affectionately, milking Jensen’s cock until he’s sure it’s too sensitive for the touch to be truly pleasurable anymore.

Jensen just keeps at it, clenching around Misha’s cock and trying to find a better angle to bring him off.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he whispers, writhing when Misha’s cock drags over his prostate. “C’mon, baby. I’ve got you. I wanna feel you come inside me. Wanna feel you fill me up, just this once, baby. Don’t wanna be able to walk straight for a fucking _week_ after this.”

Jensen’s legs tighten around Misha’s waist as though to hold him in place as the tension at the base of Misha’s spine builds and builds. Jensen’s hand trails over the scar on Misha’s side and that’s all it takes for Misha to come as well, burying himself deep inside Jensen’s ass, biting down hard on Jensen’s shoulder to muffle the sound of his shout, and listening to the filthy stream of encouragements – “fuck yes, goddamnit, baby, you look so fucking beautiful when you come for me” - Jensen whispers in his ear.

It seems like an insurmountable task, but Misha manages to slide out of Jensen’s ass when, still shaking through the aftermath, his arms finally give out and he tumbles down to lie beside Jensen.

Jensen keens softly at the loss.

“Sorry,” Misha mutters.

“It’s fine,” Jensen responds as he turns his face to the side and kisses Misha’s cheek, his other hand coming up to stroke Misha’s hair. “You’re so beautiful, Misha.”

Misha smiles against Jensen’s neck until Jensen leans in to lick open his mouth.

They lay there kissing each other lazily for several long minutes. Jensen pulls back first, running a thumb along Misha’s bottom lip. He kisses him chastely, and says something about cleaning them up before slipping off the bed and padding into the bathroom.

Misha watches Jensen find a washcloth and run it under some water. He lets his eyes wander down Jensen’s body, taking in every detail as he goes. His eyes stop at the inside of Jensen’s thigh where he can see what can only be some of his come slowly running down Jensen’s leg.

Before he can even fully process the image and what it means, Jensen’s returning to the bed, a noticeable oddness to his gait. He hisses slightly when he climbs onto the bed and worry settles in Misha’s stomach.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Jensen smiles fondly at him as he wipes down his stomach. “It’s nothing. I haven’t done that in a while.”

Misha smiles at him, fingers reaching up to press gently against the bruise that’s blossomed on Jensen’s neck. Jensen groans, leaning into the touch.

“Thought we weren’t supposed to leave marks.”

“Couldn’t help myself. I was going to put it lower so you could hide it, but then I got carried away.”

“You know, it’s only fair that I get to put one on you,” Jensen says, already moving down Misha’s body.

Jensen bites down on the thin flesh over the spur of his hip and Misha gasps, involuntarily thrusting upwards in an attempt to gain more contact with Jensen’s mouth. Jensen laughs against his skin, eyes flicking up to look at Misha through his lashes as he closes his lips over the bite mark and starts sucking a large, purposefully amateurish bruise into Misha’s skin. When he’s done, he leans back and gives his work an appraising look, sliding his hand soothingly over Misha’s thigh and swiping his thumb over the mark.

“You decided yet?” Misha asks softly.

Jensen sighs. “Do we have to do this now?”

“You promised, Jen.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Misha says, sitting up. “I love you, too.”

Jensen straddles Misha’s lap, tilting his head to kiss him. Arousal stirs again in Misha’s gut as their tongues slide across each other, but breaks off the kiss before it can move any further. Jensen sighs again, letting his head rest on Misha’s shoulder and they breathe together for a few moments, taking in the finality of their situation.

“I should go. It’ll look bad if I’m seen coming out of your room in the morning wearing the same clothes from tonight. Can’t jeopardize the job you just got.” He makes to leave, but Misha grabs him and pulls him back.

“Please, don’t leave yet, Jensen. I just want to this for a little longer.”

He’s sure it’ll hurt even more when they have to say goodbye to each other again in the morning, but he can’t help it. He wraps his arms around Jensen and breathes in the smell of him as deeply as he can. While he still can. Jensen slowly relaxes in his arms and neither of them mentions that he hasn’t actually said what he’s decided to do.

It takes Misha forever to fall asleep. Terrified that Jensen will slip out of the room the second he dozes off, and Misha will wake to a cold and empty bed.

Which is exactly what happens.

Misha wakes after hearing the door click shut, but his mind is too addled from sleep and he’s asleep again before he even realizes he woke up.

He wakes again some time later, though he doesn’t know what woke him.

“Jensen?” he murmurs, rubbing at his eye in a futile attempt to clear the sleep from it. He sees the other half of the bed is empty and tries calling Jensen’s name again, hating himself a little for how desperate he sounds. There’s still no response. Misha knows that none will come no matter how much he calls.

He sees something white gleaming in the darkness near his door and Misha snaps on a light to see. It takes a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness, but when he does, he sees that the white gleam is an envelope that’s been pushed under his door.

The sight alone makes breathing difficult. He knows what’s inside it. He dreads it. Still, he gets out of bed and picks it up with shaking hands to confirm that it’s real. All it says on the front is his name in Jensen’s handwriting, but Misha feels his throat constrict anyway.

He puts the envelope back down where he found it, stark white against the ugly hotel carpet. Still shaking, he snaps the light off again, and stares at the envelope that seems to glow even brighter than before in the darkness. Try as he might, the tears he’d been holding back prick even more persistently at his eyes and, for the first time since his father died, Misha cries himself to sleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, a large part of him hopes that maybe it was all a bad dream. When he opens his eyes, Jensen will be stepping out of the shower and the envelope won’t be there.

But it is.

Misha drags himself out of bed and spends his shower thinking about putting on proper clothes for the day, but then climbs into his pajamas once he’s done. The envelope sits on the floor taunting him the whole time. He doesn’t pick it up again until he has some socks on and his ratty old Harvard sweatshirt. Then he takes it down the hall to Sam’s room. He passes Jensen’s door along the way and knows, without actually knowing, that Jensen’s long gone. Probably already on a plane back to D.C. or, more likely, Texas. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and waits for Sam to answer his knocking, while trying to keep himself from staring at Jensen’s door.

All it takes is one look at him before Sam’s saying, “Oh, Misha, I’m so sorry,” and letting him enter.

“Can… can you cancel everything that‘s completely frivolous today?” Misha asks, standing resolutely just inside her doorway as he speaks, mentally abrading himself for stumbling over the first couple of words. “I realize it’s short notice, and I realize that some of the obligations I made I’ll have to keep, but is there anyway we can… I really need some space today, Sam. You can say I’m hungover. Better yet, tell them I’m still drunk. Just, please.”

Sam nods quietly and Misha can’t stand to look at her for very long because he can see the concern in her eyes, the need to comfort him and tell him it’ll be okay. He knows that if he lets her get started he’ll turn into a blubbering mess again and it was embarrassing enough crying his eyes out when he was alone, he couldn’t bear to lose it in front of someone else.

“I know I just dropped a lot on your plate, but if you could also - just whenever you get a chance - dispose of this, I’d really appreciate it.” He thrusts the envelope in her direction, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on anything but the thing in his hand. “Toss it, tear it up, burn it, shoot it into the sun for all I care, just get rid of the fucking thing.”

Sam takes it and glances at the front. “Misha, it’s addressed to you.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t opened it.”

“I _know_. Just get rid of it, _please_. If you won’t, then give it to Jim or Jared or Ben or Jeremy or Clif or _someone_ and make them do it. I can’t, Sam. I just can’t.” He slams the side of his fist against his thigh to keep from crying again as his voice cracks and breaks over the words. Stupid fucking Jensen; he just had to come into his life and ruin everything. He turns to leave, needing to put as much space between himself and that fucking envelope and its fucking contents.

“This is not a letter of resignation,” Sam says and Misha jerks away from the door as if it’s been electrified. “This is not a letter of resignation. It should be, but it’s not.”

“What?” Sam’s gotten the envelope open and unfolded the enclosed letter without Misha hearing any of it.

“I understand why we can’t be together,” Sam continues, her eyes flick over to Misha every few words, gauging how he’s taking the news. “I’ve understood for a long time. I won’t be gone for very long. I just need some time to think and make sure I’m making the right decision. I’m certain that I have. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, but I know you’ll need the space as much as I do.

“There is no one else in the world that I love as much as I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you. You once said that it was just me in terms of men you’ve loved, for me, there’s just you. And just as you said that you were being selfish to not give up your career for me, I’m going to be selfish too.  

“I’m going to wait. I’m going to wait, and if you decide to run for re-election, then I’ll wait for you some more. You’re worth that wait, Misha. You may not think it, but you are.”

All the air’s been sucked out of the room and Misha can’t breathe. He slides slowly down the wall as Jensen’s words flow over him, curling up to make himself as small a target as possible, hiding his hands in his sweatshirt, and trying to bury himself in the fabric. Maybe he’ll find some trace of Jensen in its smell. Months ago, when they had a couple hours, Misha had wandered into the kitchen after a post-coital cat nap and found Jensen puttering around in nothing but this sweatshirt. Misha had teased him mercilessly for doing something as clichéd as wearing nothing but the boyfriend’s shirt and Jensen had stopped his teasing with a kiss that had turned into several. By the time they were done, the leftovers Jensen had been reheating had gone cold again.

“If you don’t want me as your assistant anymore, that’s fine, I understand,” Sam continues. “I’ll find another job or I’ll go and finally get my law degree. But I’ll wait for you.

“I love you, Misha. I want to make that absolutely clear if I haven’t already. You are the love of my life. I love you, and I wouldn’t change any of this for the world.” Sam folds the letter back up and holds it out to Misha. “There’s some more written, but I think you get the picture.”

Misha slowly looks up, and takes the letter from Sam with a trembling hand.

“I’m going to cancel whatever I can. Jim wants to go over some things with you. I’m not entirely sure what his dress code is, so you might want to put on something other than your jim-jams. At least put some jeans on instead. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Misha says voice as shaky as his hands. He slowly stands, letting the wall take a lot of his weight while he waits for his legs to not feel like they’re going to give out at any second. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam pulls Misha into a hug that would rival Jared’s in its ability to comfort while simultaneously cutting off his air supply. “Don’t mention it.” She pulls away and levels him one of her sternest looks. “He does love you, you know.”

Misha laughs, swiping at his eyes with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “Yeah, Sam, I know.”

“It’ll be okay, I promise. It’ll all work out.”

“Yeah. I’m just still having some trouble believing that right now.”

\--

Jim greets him with a cup of coffee and a pat on the shoulder.

“Jensen came and talked to me before he left,” he says. “He took the red eye back to Texas, promised he’d call me when he landed. He’s already arranged for Alona to take over duties as your assistant while he’s gone, and she knows that she’ll take over the post permanently should you choose to let him go.”

Misha nods, staring at the floor. He opens his mouth to speak, finds that he can’t, clears it, then says, “How long?”

“A week.”

“He wasn’t supposed to do this,” Misha says, hating how hoarse his voice sounds. “He wasn’t supposed to just up and leave. He said he’d train someone before he left.”

“He has. Alona’s been ready to take over for a couple weeks now,” Jim says. “He’s been planning this for a while, Mish.”

Misha nods again, goes over to the table in the hotel room, and sits. “So,” he says, “what’s next?”

\--

Jensen absence is felt throughout the staff like a missing cog in their otherwise well-oiled machine.

When he comes back, Misha refrains from kissing him like he wants to. He gives Jensen’s shoulder a friendly squeeze instead and says, “Glad you’re back,” while trying not to stare at the fading bruise he’d sucked onto Jensen’s neck a week ago. Jensen had only nodded and said, “same,” in reply as Misha dropped his hand, not wanting the touch to linger more than it already had.

Misha shoves down the jealousy that bubbles up when Jared gets a smile and a hug out of Jensen upon their reunion.

The presidential transition period had started the day after the election ended and the transferring of executive power from one administration to the next is never easy. While Misha’s spent his entire adult life in politics, he doesn’t think he’s ever talked on the subject this much in all those years. The ten weeks between Election and Inauguration Day is nothing but endless meetings and press conferences followed by more meetings as he tries to solidify his cabinet and laying down the groundwork for when he can begin implementing his policies.

Because of this, he can’t pour as much of his attention as he’d like into rebuilding his relationship with Jensen and the first few weeks are filled with tension; neither of them knowing exactly how to act around the other.

Luckily, Jensen meets what efforts he can spare halfway and they slowly start to regain their footing with one another, both professionally and personally. By the time January comes around and Misha’s inaugurated, they’ve become more physical with each other, allowing themselves friendly touches - a pat on the back or hand on the shoulder, letting their fingers brush when handing documents back and forth, sitting a little closer together in the backs of cars - throughout the day. Misha’s not stupid enough to believe that they’ll ever get back to the point they were at before. Too much shit has happened. He’s just happy to get his friend back.

\--

Three years seem to pass in no time at all. Misha’s presidency, though not without a few scandals – and a memorable State of the Union address where Jensen had fixed his collar and slapped his ass while the cameras were on them, asking if Misha’d been born in a barn - is praised as being one of the more successful.

He’s wildly popular as the third year of his presidency starts to come to a close and everyone begins speculating as to whether or not he’ll run again for reelection.

Misha and the staff have talked long and hard about that very subject with everyone agreeing that the decision was ultimately Misha’s and Misha’s alone. They would follow him whatever he decided.

\--

Jensen sits with him in the back of the car as Clif drives them to a press conference being held in Arlington. Rain thunders down on the roof off the car, and Misha stares out the window listlessly at the wet blur the world has been turned into, mentally going over his talking points and worrying about when he won’t be able to evade the press’s questions on his plans for a second term. He’s probably going to be cornered on the issue soon, if not tonight and the thought weighs on him. He wonders if Jensen had felt this much weight on his shoulders when Misha had given him the ultimatum to stay on staff or move on once their relationship ended, or took a break, or whatever it is that they’re at.

Jensen must sense which direction his thoughts have turned because he reaches over and covers Misha’s hand with his own. It’s a far more intimate touch than they’ve let themselves indulge in for years and Misha gasps softly.

Jensen’s thumb sweeps across Misha’s knuckles soothingly. “Misha, you already know what my decision will be if you choose to run again.”

“Yeah,” Misha says shakily, he still has Jensen’s letter and practically has it memorized. “I just wish _I_ knew if I’m going to run again.”

Jensen laughs softly. “You’ll make the right decision when the time comes.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” He brushes his fingers gently through Misha’s hair. “If nothing else, you haven’t gone grey yet like you thought you would.”

Misha makes some quip he won’t remember later about how he’s been using shoe polish to hide it. Jensen laughs again, then raises Misha’s hand to his mouth and gently brushes his lips across Misha’s knuckles, wiping his thumb over the point of contact afterwards.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mish.”

Misha closes the gap between them to press a chaste kiss against the corner of Jensen’s mouth. Jensen makes to kiss Misha fully when Clif tells them that they’re approaching the building the press conference is being held in. They quickly pull away from each other, retreating a respectful distance, though Jensen’s fingers still linger by Misha’s hand. When they stop, Jensen grabs Misha’s hand one last time to give it a reassuring squeeze before they both step out of the car.

The second they’re inside, Sam – whose been fielding questions up till now – announces Misha’s arrival. Over the applause of his entrance, Sam leans close to Misha’s ear and says, “Take Genevieve’s question first.  Front row to your right.” Misha nods slightly as he moves to the podium. He casts his eyes over the sea of reporters in front of him, makes eye contact with Genevieve, then makes up his mind and points to someone else saying, “Yes, Traci?” He can practically hear the staff groan from the sideline. Traci Dinwiddie of the _Times_ has been one of the more vocal correspondents about Misha’s reelection plans.

Sure enough, the question comes. “Mr. President, will you be seeking a second term?”

Misha pauses before answering, listening to the storm outside. “I’m sorry, can you please repeat the question? I couldn’t hear you over the thunder.”

Everyone knows he heard the question perfectly well the first time, but she obligingly asks, “Will you be seeking a second term?” again.

Misha removes his hands from where they’ve been resting on the podium and glances to his left, where the staff is standing. He finds Jensen who smiles at him. He nods, mouthing the words ‘I love you’ as he motions for him to answer the question. Misha can’t do much in return with the cameras still on him, but he knows Jensen can read him like a book as he turns back to the reporters who are quickly growing more and more restless in anticipation of his answer. He stands a little straighter, chin lifting slightly, hands slipping into his pockets to make himself look both intimidating and nonchalant at the same time.

He opens his mouth to answer, then smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to: Jeanna, for getting me to write this in the first place and cheering me on every step of the way; Konst, for doing beta work on the first part and drumming up initial interest; Dani, for doing some last minute beta work, suggesting the title, and talking me through posting; and Anna, for giving me her ao3 invite when I had nowhere else to post.


End file.
